charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2012-12-28 05:37 pm
charleygirl) wrote2012-12-28 05:37 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Phantom of the Opera | The Garish Light of Day 28/?
Title: The Garish Light of Day 28/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2457
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: An evening as a normal man.
AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN
Erik felt as though he had taken a tumble down the rabbit hole.
Here he was, a cursed freak as he had been told so often in his life, a monster not fit for human eyes, a beast, a creature no one would dare look upon without horror, welcomed into such select company with open arms, feted by the nobility with the most beautiful woman in the room on his arm. How had this come to pass? Would he one day wake and find that he was back in his world of night below the theatre, or worse, the cage in the gypsy carnival, forced to sing for his supper and make women and children scream to avoid a beating from his captors? Surely that was the cold reality and this the dream, the furthest flight of his imagination.
Marigny and Fontaine expressed astonishment at his inventive costume, the latter fascinated by the gold mask and its ability to break seamlessly in two. When he used simple sleight of hand to produce three gold Louis from Fontaine’s ear he thought the man might have an apoplexy so enthusiastic did he become. An impulsive demonstration of his ventriloquism, making one of the statues on the staircase sing, practically had them eating out of his hand.
“Good Lord, Monsieur, is there nothing you cannot do?” Fontaine demanded. “How is it that you have spent so much of your career in obscurity? Such talents must surely be in demand!”
“I have a wide-ranging interest, sir, but there is little call for such abilities except in a circus or as a cheap entertainer,” Erik replied, neglecting to mention that the circus was precisely where he had learned his tricks, while still a boy. “I wished to make more of myself than that.”
“Quite so, quite so,” Marigny said, nodding. He had come as Napoleon, even though he was somewhat taller than the emperor and had rather less hair. Someone had painted a dark curl onto his forehead; it looked perfectly well until he removed his hat to scratch his bald scalp, when it became isolated and rather ridiculous. His wife, to whom Erik had been introduced earlier in the evening, was her namesake the Empress Josephine, but unfortunately she cut a rather matronly figure in her high-waisted Directoire gown and feathered headdress. “And so you shall, if you stick with us. You can put your career as a petty scribbler behind you.”
“I am not sure I wish to abandon my publisher just yet,” Erik said carefully. “Every composer hopes to make a success of his work, and I have only just started upon that road. Music means a great deal to me, as I am sure you must appreciate.”
Fontaine leaned forwards and rested a hand on his shoulder. It was obvious even as the ball began that he had been imbibing, and he maintained that if he did not test the punch it could not be deemed fit for public consumption. Privately Erik thought that those involved in the catering must be hard-pressed to maintain a constant supply of the stuff; Fontaine was not to be seen without a glass in his hand. His already ruddy face appeared to glow. “A good composer needs a patron, Monsieur,” he announced, waving a hand expansively and almost knocking over a tray of champagne carried by a passing footman. He tapped the side of his nose and grinned. “We can help you with that, I believe.”
And so it was that Erik found himself speaking with the Marquis de Borges, a rotund, bewhiskered gentleman dressed as Mark Anthony, whose jovial demeanour set him apart from most of the rest of his class. Erik despised the aristocracy on principle, but much to his surprise he found himself actually liking the marquis, who turned out to have a wide knowledge of the theatre and the opera in particular and a far sharper intellect than was obvious upon first impression. He seemed quite happy to converse upon the subject of Bizet and Berlioz, Salieri and Schubert, until a couple of concerned flunkeys came to explain that there were many more people deserving of his attention and that he needed to circulate. With a role of his eyes he waddled off, calling over his shoulder that they must resume their conversation at a more convenient time.
“You seem to be very popular this evening,” Christine said quietly, making Erik jump. He had contrived to forget about it for most of the evening, but now that she was beside him again the ring box in his pocket seemed to sit there like a lead weight. He glanced at the clock above the auditorium door, and realised with a jolt that it was well past eleven o’clock.
“I’m sorry, I... I didn’t realise the time.” He took her gloved hand, squeezing it apologetically. “Have you been enjoying yourself?”
“As much as I could while you were being monopolised,” she told him, pouting slightly. “You haven’t even danced with me yet.”
“Then that is something which we must rectify immediately.” Erik turned his attention to the little orchestra in the pit, hoping that for the next measure they would strike up a waltz for he would be entirely lost with anything else. He almost held his breath as the conductor counted them in, relief flooding him much like a condemned man given a last-minute reprieve when the familiar triple meter strains of that once most scandalous of dances began. Despite that, his heart was beating fit to burst as he led Christine out on to the floor that had been constructed over the stall seats; it was all he could do not to turn and run as she laid her hand on his shoulder and he rested his hesitantly just above her waist. Almost before he was aware of it they were moving, his feet following the steps automatically, the room and the other dancers around them fading into a confused blur.
Much to his surprise, before long his nerves began to abate and he found himself relaxing. The anonymity granted to him by the nature of the gathering was wonderfully liberating; beneath his disguise he could be anyone at all. No one would laugh or call him names, there would be no jeering and, thank God, no screams. For the very first time in his life, Erik started to know how it felt to be normal.
They had taken several turns about the room before he registered that Christine was smiling at him. Though he could only see the lower part of her face her eyes were sparkling behind her mask and she looked positively radiant. As they whirled around there was no sign of the clumsiness she had often displayed as a ballerina; her steps were light and sure, her body swaying gracefully in time with the music. The fact that she was gazing at him, at him and no one else with such obvious pleasure almost took his breath away, and the little box in his pocket felt even heavier than before. Could he really dare to ask such a heavenly creature to tie herself to him, to remain at his side for the rest of her days?
“Where did you learn to waltz?” she asked, the sound of her voice once more jolting him from his thoughts. “You are very good at it.”
Laughter bubbled up within him and she gave him a curious, puzzled look. “Would you believe this morning?” he replied, and when he told her about Madame Giry and the broken china she was soon laughing too.
“I don’t deserve you,” Christine said, turning her deep brown eyes, wide and wondering, to meet his. “I do believe that you would do anything for me.”
“I would give my life for you, Christine,” Erik told her quite seriously. “You have only to ask.”
“Oh, Erik.” Her smile was soft. “I think I would much rather have you here at my side.”
The music ending, they drifted to a halt almost without realising. After the customary polite applause for the orchestra, Erik reluctantly handed Christine back to the sidelines; no matter how much he might wish to hold her all night, he had to abide by convention and allow others to take their turn. It was quite clear from the names scribbled on her fan that her dance card was already full, and why should it not be? A young woman such as she should not lack for partners. Young Gianni approached hopefully; Christine glanced at Erik for approval and he nodded, grateful that the all-encompassing mask relieved him of the need to smile. Unable to bear the sight of her dancing with another man, he left the auditorium, weaving his way through the crowd and heading for the little grotto beneath the grand escallier, a place often used by secretive lovers at such gatherings but thankfully empty at that moment.
Suddenly weary, he sank down on the marble edge of the fountain, glad of the cool and the quiet. The papier mache covering his face was stuffy and suffocating; he removed it to wipe his brow, reflecting that it had been a long time since he last wore a full mask, so long that he had forgotten quite how claustrophobic it could be. He would not like to return to those days. Lazily, he pulled off a glove and dabbled his hand in the water; the spray danced upon his palm, droplets catching the light. A tune sprang into his head, almost fully-formed, and he hummed, turning his hand over and letting the water beat its tattoo upon his wrist.
The sound of a footstep destroyed this momentary idyll, the hard, echoing tap of a high-heeled shoe. Immediately, instinctively, Erik replaced the mask, rising to his feet and turning in one fluid motion to meet this intruder upon his solitude. A woman stood there, wearing the kind of loose, silk negligee favoured by the courtesans which had surrounded the Sun King. It was a costume which might have appeared voluptuous upon someone rather better endowed, but the lady over whose form it was draped could not fill the fabric; it hung from her bony frame like bed sheet, the bodice looking forlorn without a buxom chest to fill it. Her face was covered, naturally, but Erik recognised the pale blonde hair that was curled and bunched around her ears and even before she spoke he knew that it was Augustine Albert. She smiled through lips painted a shocking shade of red, and thrust forward one hip, parting the lilac folds of her nightgown and revealing a surprisingly shapely ankle.
“I knew it was you,” she said, thin fingers toying with the coiled ringlet which lay across one shoulder. “No one else has that proud bearing. And I’d know your eyes anywhere, Monsieur le Directeur.”
“I would imagine that is because they are so strange,” Erik replied, resisting the urge to back away as she took a couple of steps towards him. “Most people’s eyes are just one colour.”
“You do yourself an injustice. I prefer ‘unique’.” Augustine smiled again. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Come and have a dance; we can’t have you sitting out here all by yourself while the party’s still in full swing.”
Now he did move, folding his arms inside the loose sleeves of his robe. “I am quite content with my own company, Mademoiselle,” he told her coldly. “I need no one else.”
“I’m sure our dear, divine Daae would disagree, though I notice she’s not spent much time with you this evening. Only one waltz, when she’s been twirling around with half the chorus?” The soprano shook her head, not taking the hint and following as Erik continued to walk backwards; he felt his shoulders hit the wall and realised that he had nowhere else to go. Augustine raised a hand, leaning it casually against the marble beside his head. “I wouldn’t let you get away that easily.”
Erik cleared his throat. “I think you have entirely misunderstood me, Mademoiselle Albert. The relationship between us is strictly professional.”
“You and Christine, or you and me?” she enquired, and immediately continued without waiting for an answer, “It matters little, I enjoy a challenge.” She lifted her other arm, so that she was resting both hands on the wall and effectively trapping him with her body. Had a man done such a thing, forced such unwanted contact upon Erik, he would not have lived long enough to discover the consequences, but he found himself balking at the idea of so harming a woman. Perhaps his desire for self-preservation beyond all else had dimmed over the years, or maybe he was just distracted by the patch she had placed upon her chest, drawing the eye towards her heaving bosom; inadequate though it might be in many respects, Erik had never been quite so close to a woman in that way before and her proximity was beginning to make his head spin.
Augustine’s blood-red smile grew wider as she realised the effect she was having upon him. Even though his face was covered it must be obvious that he was breathing heavily; perspiration ran down his forehead beneath the mask and his fingers curled into fists as he tried to will himself to remain calm. “Come now,” she cooed, stroking his false face, “You can do better than that milksop virgin. You need a real woman, I can tell.”
Erik shook his head. “You are mistaken, Mademoiselle,” he said hoarsely. “Kindly leave me be and return to the ball.”
She laughed. “I don’t believe you. Come on, stop being coy. Just one little kiss, and then we’ll see if you don’t want more. Let me see your face, you don’t need to hide from me. Just one little kiss...” Her fingers were curling around the edge of the mask, prying at it, pulling it away...
With a wordless cry Erik shoved her from him, past caring that she was of the weaker sex. He pushed away her wanton, perfumed presence, but it was too late, he could feel the cold air on his distorted cheek and a scream was ringing in his ears.
“Oh my God, what are you? What are you?”
Augustine was sprawled inelegantly on the ground, the golden mask clutched in her vermilion talons, her mouth a round circle of horror and amazement. She stared at him as though she had just seen the Devil, and Erik did the only thing he could: head bowed, one hand clamped to his deformity, he turned and ran.
Somewhere nearby, a clock struck twelve.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2457
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: An evening as a normal man.
Erik felt as though he had taken a tumble down the rabbit hole.
Here he was, a cursed freak as he had been told so often in his life, a monster not fit for human eyes, a beast, a creature no one would dare look upon without horror, welcomed into such select company with open arms, feted by the nobility with the most beautiful woman in the room on his arm. How had this come to pass? Would he one day wake and find that he was back in his world of night below the theatre, or worse, the cage in the gypsy carnival, forced to sing for his supper and make women and children scream to avoid a beating from his captors? Surely that was the cold reality and this the dream, the furthest flight of his imagination.
Marigny and Fontaine expressed astonishment at his inventive costume, the latter fascinated by the gold mask and its ability to break seamlessly in two. When he used simple sleight of hand to produce three gold Louis from Fontaine’s ear he thought the man might have an apoplexy so enthusiastic did he become. An impulsive demonstration of his ventriloquism, making one of the statues on the staircase sing, practically had them eating out of his hand.
“Good Lord, Monsieur, is there nothing you cannot do?” Fontaine demanded. “How is it that you have spent so much of your career in obscurity? Such talents must surely be in demand!”
“I have a wide-ranging interest, sir, but there is little call for such abilities except in a circus or as a cheap entertainer,” Erik replied, neglecting to mention that the circus was precisely where he had learned his tricks, while still a boy. “I wished to make more of myself than that.”
“Quite so, quite so,” Marigny said, nodding. He had come as Napoleon, even though he was somewhat taller than the emperor and had rather less hair. Someone had painted a dark curl onto his forehead; it looked perfectly well until he removed his hat to scratch his bald scalp, when it became isolated and rather ridiculous. His wife, to whom Erik had been introduced earlier in the evening, was her namesake the Empress Josephine, but unfortunately she cut a rather matronly figure in her high-waisted Directoire gown and feathered headdress. “And so you shall, if you stick with us. You can put your career as a petty scribbler behind you.”
“I am not sure I wish to abandon my publisher just yet,” Erik said carefully. “Every composer hopes to make a success of his work, and I have only just started upon that road. Music means a great deal to me, as I am sure you must appreciate.”
Fontaine leaned forwards and rested a hand on his shoulder. It was obvious even as the ball began that he had been imbibing, and he maintained that if he did not test the punch it could not be deemed fit for public consumption. Privately Erik thought that those involved in the catering must be hard-pressed to maintain a constant supply of the stuff; Fontaine was not to be seen without a glass in his hand. His already ruddy face appeared to glow. “A good composer needs a patron, Monsieur,” he announced, waving a hand expansively and almost knocking over a tray of champagne carried by a passing footman. He tapped the side of his nose and grinned. “We can help you with that, I believe.”
And so it was that Erik found himself speaking with the Marquis de Borges, a rotund, bewhiskered gentleman dressed as Mark Anthony, whose jovial demeanour set him apart from most of the rest of his class. Erik despised the aristocracy on principle, but much to his surprise he found himself actually liking the marquis, who turned out to have a wide knowledge of the theatre and the opera in particular and a far sharper intellect than was obvious upon first impression. He seemed quite happy to converse upon the subject of Bizet and Berlioz, Salieri and Schubert, until a couple of concerned flunkeys came to explain that there were many more people deserving of his attention and that he needed to circulate. With a role of his eyes he waddled off, calling over his shoulder that they must resume their conversation at a more convenient time.
“You seem to be very popular this evening,” Christine said quietly, making Erik jump. He had contrived to forget about it for most of the evening, but now that she was beside him again the ring box in his pocket seemed to sit there like a lead weight. He glanced at the clock above the auditorium door, and realised with a jolt that it was well past eleven o’clock.
“I’m sorry, I... I didn’t realise the time.” He took her gloved hand, squeezing it apologetically. “Have you been enjoying yourself?”
“As much as I could while you were being monopolised,” she told him, pouting slightly. “You haven’t even danced with me yet.”
“Then that is something which we must rectify immediately.” Erik turned his attention to the little orchestra in the pit, hoping that for the next measure they would strike up a waltz for he would be entirely lost with anything else. He almost held his breath as the conductor counted them in, relief flooding him much like a condemned man given a last-minute reprieve when the familiar triple meter strains of that once most scandalous of dances began. Despite that, his heart was beating fit to burst as he led Christine out on to the floor that had been constructed over the stall seats; it was all he could do not to turn and run as she laid her hand on his shoulder and he rested his hesitantly just above her waist. Almost before he was aware of it they were moving, his feet following the steps automatically, the room and the other dancers around them fading into a confused blur.
Much to his surprise, before long his nerves began to abate and he found himself relaxing. The anonymity granted to him by the nature of the gathering was wonderfully liberating; beneath his disguise he could be anyone at all. No one would laugh or call him names, there would be no jeering and, thank God, no screams. For the very first time in his life, Erik started to know how it felt to be normal.
They had taken several turns about the room before he registered that Christine was smiling at him. Though he could only see the lower part of her face her eyes were sparkling behind her mask and she looked positively radiant. As they whirled around there was no sign of the clumsiness she had often displayed as a ballerina; her steps were light and sure, her body swaying gracefully in time with the music. The fact that she was gazing at him, at him and no one else with such obvious pleasure almost took his breath away, and the little box in his pocket felt even heavier than before. Could he really dare to ask such a heavenly creature to tie herself to him, to remain at his side for the rest of her days?
“Where did you learn to waltz?” she asked, the sound of her voice once more jolting him from his thoughts. “You are very good at it.”
Laughter bubbled up within him and she gave him a curious, puzzled look. “Would you believe this morning?” he replied, and when he told her about Madame Giry and the broken china she was soon laughing too.
“I don’t deserve you,” Christine said, turning her deep brown eyes, wide and wondering, to meet his. “I do believe that you would do anything for me.”
“I would give my life for you, Christine,” Erik told her quite seriously. “You have only to ask.”
“Oh, Erik.” Her smile was soft. “I think I would much rather have you here at my side.”
The music ending, they drifted to a halt almost without realising. After the customary polite applause for the orchestra, Erik reluctantly handed Christine back to the sidelines; no matter how much he might wish to hold her all night, he had to abide by convention and allow others to take their turn. It was quite clear from the names scribbled on her fan that her dance card was already full, and why should it not be? A young woman such as she should not lack for partners. Young Gianni approached hopefully; Christine glanced at Erik for approval and he nodded, grateful that the all-encompassing mask relieved him of the need to smile. Unable to bear the sight of her dancing with another man, he left the auditorium, weaving his way through the crowd and heading for the little grotto beneath the grand escallier, a place often used by secretive lovers at such gatherings but thankfully empty at that moment.
Suddenly weary, he sank down on the marble edge of the fountain, glad of the cool and the quiet. The papier mache covering his face was stuffy and suffocating; he removed it to wipe his brow, reflecting that it had been a long time since he last wore a full mask, so long that he had forgotten quite how claustrophobic it could be. He would not like to return to those days. Lazily, he pulled off a glove and dabbled his hand in the water; the spray danced upon his palm, droplets catching the light. A tune sprang into his head, almost fully-formed, and he hummed, turning his hand over and letting the water beat its tattoo upon his wrist.
The sound of a footstep destroyed this momentary idyll, the hard, echoing tap of a high-heeled shoe. Immediately, instinctively, Erik replaced the mask, rising to his feet and turning in one fluid motion to meet this intruder upon his solitude. A woman stood there, wearing the kind of loose, silk negligee favoured by the courtesans which had surrounded the Sun King. It was a costume which might have appeared voluptuous upon someone rather better endowed, but the lady over whose form it was draped could not fill the fabric; it hung from her bony frame like bed sheet, the bodice looking forlorn without a buxom chest to fill it. Her face was covered, naturally, but Erik recognised the pale blonde hair that was curled and bunched around her ears and even before she spoke he knew that it was Augustine Albert. She smiled through lips painted a shocking shade of red, and thrust forward one hip, parting the lilac folds of her nightgown and revealing a surprisingly shapely ankle.
“I knew it was you,” she said, thin fingers toying with the coiled ringlet which lay across one shoulder. “No one else has that proud bearing. And I’d know your eyes anywhere, Monsieur le Directeur.”
“I would imagine that is because they are so strange,” Erik replied, resisting the urge to back away as she took a couple of steps towards him. “Most people’s eyes are just one colour.”
“You do yourself an injustice. I prefer ‘unique’.” Augustine smiled again. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Come and have a dance; we can’t have you sitting out here all by yourself while the party’s still in full swing.”
Now he did move, folding his arms inside the loose sleeves of his robe. “I am quite content with my own company, Mademoiselle,” he told her coldly. “I need no one else.”
“I’m sure our dear, divine Daae would disagree, though I notice she’s not spent much time with you this evening. Only one waltz, when she’s been twirling around with half the chorus?” The soprano shook her head, not taking the hint and following as Erik continued to walk backwards; he felt his shoulders hit the wall and realised that he had nowhere else to go. Augustine raised a hand, leaning it casually against the marble beside his head. “I wouldn’t let you get away that easily.”
Erik cleared his throat. “I think you have entirely misunderstood me, Mademoiselle Albert. The relationship between us is strictly professional.”
“You and Christine, or you and me?” she enquired, and immediately continued without waiting for an answer, “It matters little, I enjoy a challenge.” She lifted her other arm, so that she was resting both hands on the wall and effectively trapping him with her body. Had a man done such a thing, forced such unwanted contact upon Erik, he would not have lived long enough to discover the consequences, but he found himself balking at the idea of so harming a woman. Perhaps his desire for self-preservation beyond all else had dimmed over the years, or maybe he was just distracted by the patch she had placed upon her chest, drawing the eye towards her heaving bosom; inadequate though it might be in many respects, Erik had never been quite so close to a woman in that way before and her proximity was beginning to make his head spin.
Augustine’s blood-red smile grew wider as she realised the effect she was having upon him. Even though his face was covered it must be obvious that he was breathing heavily; perspiration ran down his forehead beneath the mask and his fingers curled into fists as he tried to will himself to remain calm. “Come now,” she cooed, stroking his false face, “You can do better than that milksop virgin. You need a real woman, I can tell.”
Erik shook his head. “You are mistaken, Mademoiselle,” he said hoarsely. “Kindly leave me be and return to the ball.”
She laughed. “I don’t believe you. Come on, stop being coy. Just one little kiss, and then we’ll see if you don’t want more. Let me see your face, you don’t need to hide from me. Just one little kiss...” Her fingers were curling around the edge of the mask, prying at it, pulling it away...
With a wordless cry Erik shoved her from him, past caring that she was of the weaker sex. He pushed away her wanton, perfumed presence, but it was too late, he could feel the cold air on his distorted cheek and a scream was ringing in his ears.
“Oh my God, what are you? What are you?”
Augustine was sprawled inelegantly on the ground, the golden mask clutched in her vermilion talons, her mouth a round circle of horror and amazement. She stared at him as though she had just seen the Devil, and Erik did the only thing he could: head bowed, one hand clamped to his deformity, he turned and ran.
Somewhere nearby, a clock struck twelve.