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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 30/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3835
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Angel in torment.
DEVIL’S DISGUISE, ANGEL IN BLACK
The sobs could be heard before they reached the house, echoing around the cavern, taken and bounced back and forth until they sounded quite eerie, as though some unearthly creature were weeping in the shadows. An involuntary shiver ran down Christine’s spine and she shook herself angrily. It was foolish to entertain such fancies; there were no ghosts here and there never had been. The Opera had been haunted by nothing more than a man, and that man’s pain now filled the air, his terrible, beautiful voice drawing them to him and entangling them in his misery.
“That noise... it is just Erik, isn’t it?” Meg asked tremulously, her hand gripping Christine’s sleeve.
Madame Giry’s tongue clucked irritably. “Of course, you foolish child. Who else would it be?”
“I don’t know. It’s just... I’ve never heard him like that before.”
“I have,” Christine said, exchanging a glance with Madame, “and I wish to God I never had. I hurt him so much...”
“What’s done is done, Christine,” the ballet mistress told her. “We cannot change the past.”
Meg turned wide eyes on her friend. “Christine...” She paused before continuing, as though afraid to ask the question, “What... what did you do?”
Christine realised that she had never told Meg about her transgression, about that moment when, unable to contain her curiosity about the mysterious, seductive figure that had appeared in her dressing room mirror and taken her to his underground realm, she shattered the illusion that had sustained them both for nearly five years. “I found out his secret,” she said, tears prickling in her own eyes as she remembered wandering through the house looking for her strange host and finding him in the music room. He sat before what appeared to her astonishment to be a church organ, its pipes climbing the far wall, his long white fingers moving deftly over the keys; the music he produced was peculiar, discordant, quite unlike anything she had ever heard. After a few moments he stopped, drawing a folio towards him and scribbling furiously; on tiptoe she crept up behind him and watched as he worked, his pen skipping across the manuscript paper, the notes apparently just flowing from him onto the page. Entirely wrapped up in his masterpiece, Erik had not even noticed her presence in the room and was completely unprepared when, after a few near misses that were almost like a bizarre game of hide and seek, she reached out and tore away his mask, revealing the horror beneath... Christine shook her head. “If only I had controlled myself, things might have been so different. I can still see his eyes, the way he looked at me when his anger was spent. I’ve never seen eyes so sad. It was as though he was bearing all the sorrows of the world.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Madame Giry said softly before Meg could speak. “I told him many times that he had to bring the deception to an end, to show you properly who he was. It was quite natural that you would be curious.”
“I should have waited, not ripped away his defences,” Christine countered.
“There was no way that you could have known what the mask represented. You wished to see your Angel’s face, as he must have known you would.” Madame sighed. “I have no idea exactly what he had planned to do after bringing you down here. Perhaps he didn’t really know himself.”
Another cry rent the air, reminding them of their purpose in the cellars. As Madame Giry raised the lantern Christine dug in the velvet evening bag that dangled from her wrist for the key to the front door. The lamplight revealed a dark line in the wall, the almost hidden entrance to the subterranean house; Christine inserted the key into the lock but she had no need to turn it for at a touch the door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges. Beyond it the hallway was shrouded in darkness but the telltale crunch of broken glass under her feet was eloquent enough. The only illumination came from a thin sliver of light beneath the door of the library; it was from here that the weeping came, louder now and very obviously human. It came as no surprise that Erik had taken refuge in the one place he felt safe: amongst his beloved books and instruments.
Cautiously, their steps light and almost soundless on the thick carpets, the three women entered the room. It was a mess, furniture overturned, papers strewn across the Persian rugs and torn into confetti; a lamp had been smashed, its body lying crookedly in the empty fireplace surrounded by the shattered green glass of its ornate shade. Before the grate huddled a pitiful figure in black and gold robes, one that had been so majestic and assured barely an hour ago but which now resembled nothing so much as a discarded bundle of washing. His shoulders heaved with each rough breath, hands clawing at his face, at the hated deformity; Christine could barely restrain a gasp as she realised that the darkness that ran between his fingers was not shadow but blood.
“Why?” he asked suddenly, making her jump. His voice was harsh, almost unrecognisable. “Why did you allow it? Why did you allow me to know for one blissful moment how it actually feels to be normal? Why did you show me the light only to snatch it away, to remind me of what I truly am?”
Christine opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it again when Erik raised a fist, shaking it at something or someone only he could see.
“What was it, eh? Was the monster getting above himself? Did you have to push him back down into the dirt? Did you?” The question rose into a cry, its volume increasing into a keening wail which only died away when, as though some invisible string had been cut, his hand fell back to his side and he slumped forwards, his forehead almost resting on his bent knees. His next words were so quiet she almost missed them. He sounded impossibly weary. “Have you not tormented me enough?”
Madame Giry stepped forwards but Christine shook her head, gesturing for them to remain by the door. Meg nodded, eyes wide and frightened, casting glances towards the crumpled form of the Phantom as though she could not bear to look away. Madame’s lips were clamped in a thin line but she allowed Christine to do as she wished and set down the lantern upon a nearby table that had remained upright. Its glow did much to assist the feeble light of the single candle that flickered on the piano as Christine carefully picked her way towards the fireplace. She moved slowly, knowing that Erik could become a raging fury with very little provocation, and awkwardly crouched down beside him, hampered by her skirts and train.
“Erik,” she said softly, trying to catch his eye. “Erik, it’s me, it’s Christine. It’s all right; you don’t have to hide from me, my Angel.”
“Go away.” The words were muffled, cracked by tears.
“Erik, please don’t - ”
“I said go away,” he repeated. “Leave the monster be.”
“You’re not a monster, Erik,” Christine told him, and it took all of her strength not to flinch away when his head suddenly whipped round like a viper about to strike and his face, undamaged features twisted in fury and only making the distortion look even worse, was inches away from hers. His teeth were bared in a snarl, the nostril on the complete side of his nose flaring like a dragon’s, and the rage that burnt in his mismatched eyes almost made her heart stop. Blood, that she could now see came from several cuts to the palm of his right hand, was smeared all over his deformity. It was a truly dreadful sight.
“Really?” he enquired, head on one side as he considered her reaction. “Oh, but of course! I’m a handsome devil aren’t I, Christine? I have a beauty all my own!” He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. “How proud you must be to have made such a catch, to have snared a creature such as me!”
“I love you just the way you are,” she said, determined not to give him what he wanted and turn away. Reaching out, she pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. “Your beauty is in here.”
“I fear others would not agree with you.” Erik’s wild gaze found the Girys hovering in the darkness. He swept out an arm and gave a theatrical bow. “Come in, Madame, come in, I make no charge for those who wish to stare at the freak. By all means, come and feast your eyes upon my accursed ugliness! I am a horror, Little Meg, am I not?”
Meg took a step backwards, hands raised as though to ward him away. “No,” she mumbled, “No, please - ”
“Erik, stop!” Christine cried, but he took no notice, leering at her friend’s discomfort, a dark, mad chuckle in this throat.
“I’ll wager you’ve never in your life seen a creature like me,” he said, climbing unsteadily to his feet. “Why don’t you come and take a closer look? Come on, don’t be shy: the Living Corpse will share his kiss of death with you!”
“No!” Meg closed her eyes, retreating behind Madame Giry, who seemed momentarily paralysed, torn between rushing to the unstable man’s side and protecting her daughter. “No, Erik, please don’t!”
“Erik, enough!” Before the ballet mistress could move Christine grabbed his arm, pulling him back down beside her on the rug. He gave a wordless growl, trying to throw her off but she held on tight, somehow forcing him to his knees despite his superior strength. Capturing his face between her hands she stared him deep in the eyes; his breath came in great gasps, chest hitching with each one and matching the furious beating of her own heart. Slowly, gradually, the anger began to fade, leaving behind only confusion as tears began to pool once more and he caught his trembling lower lip between his teeth, desperate not to let them fall. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him, keeping her voice soft and even. “You are not that person any more.”
“The world believes that I am,” he whispered. “They will never change. How can I fight against nature?”
“I will help you,” Christine promised. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
“Sweet, naive Christine.” Erik lifted a hand, stroking her cheek with one long, thin finger. “How I wish that were true.”
“It is true,” she insisted. He shook his head, closing his eyes. “You cannot let the prejudice of one person destroy everything you have accomplished.”
“Don’t you see, my darling girl? It is too late; the damage has already been done.” A single tear rolled down the deformed side of his face, its journey tracing the lumps and crevices. “I can never go up there again.”
A hoarse sob broke from his chest and without another word Christine gathered him to her, enfolding him in her arms as he wept into her shoulder like a child. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” she murmured, rocking him gently and running one hand over his hair as though she were petting a frightened bird. Glancing up she met Madame Giry’s gaze; concern was writ large upon the older woman’s normally stern features. She raised her eyebrows in an obvious question; Christine shook her head, returning her attention to Erik. He was calming down now, sobs fading into hiccups, his fingers gripping the expensive fabric of her dress as though he feared to let her go in case she disappeared. They sat there quietly on the hearthrug for some time, Christine ignoring the protests made by her legs and back as she continued to awkwardly hold him, happy to allow him to take comfort from her embrace. Behind her she heard the door gently close and knew that the Girys had left them alone.
“I... I’m sorry,” Erik said eventually.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Christine told him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’ve made a fool of myself again.” He took a deep breath which turned into a gulp. “Poor Little Meg... It seems I am always having to apologise to her.”
“She will understand.”
“All of you spend so much time and effort understanding... why do you tolerate me when all I do is cause you trouble?” It was a genuine question, and Christine pulled back slightly so that she could see his face. Despite its current bloody mess, some of which she realised had rubbed off on her gown and probably ruined it completely, he did look completely bewildered. Deliberately she bent her head and touched her lips to his.
“Do I really have to explain it to you?” she asked. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, and then he shook his head. Christine kissed his mangled forehead. “Good. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
She went to fetch bandages and iodine; when she returned he had not moved, but was sitting cross-legged before the fireplace, staring into the empty grate at the remains of the lamp. Christine thought she saw something, a small square box, in his palm before he realised she was there and it vanished into the folds of his black cloak. Kneeling down on the rug before him she held out her hand; after a beat he put his damaged one into hers as dispassionately as a horse presenting its foot to the farrier. Gently she examined the wounds, several shallow gashes that looked painful; some still contained shards of green glass which she delicately removed with the tweezers she had found in the bathroom. Erik made no sound throughout, not even when she dabbed the cuts with antiseptic, though it was obvious to her how much it hurt; she could feel his pulse quicken and his minute flinch at the sting of the iodine. With practise gained from assisting Madame Giry in changing the dressings upon his injured shoulder she bound up his hand in white linen and turned her attention to the blood drying upon his face. A soft sigh escaped him as she washed away the gore, careful of the paper-thin skin that covered the distorted bone and muscle, her touch feather-light.
“What did she do, Erik?” Christine asked quietly, dropping the cloth into a bowl of water which was now a rusty red. “Augustine, I mean. Why did she take your mask?”
“For the same reason as everyone else: she wanted to see what lies beneath.” He looked at her. “Just as you did.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I was young and foolish and too curious for my own good. Augustine Albert does not have that excuse, so why did she do it?”
“I think...” Erik turned his face away, flushing himself in evident embarrassment. “I think she wanted to... kiss me,” he said, his voice so low that Christine almost didn’t catch the words. “I have no idea why.”
“Oh, Erik.” She smiled sadly. “Is it so hard to believe that someone would find you attractive?”
“How can I when all that ever follows is a scream?” he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. “Dear God, those screams... I can always hear them, even after so many years. They seem to haunt my very existence.”
“Not any more. You don’t have to think of them any more.” Christine leaned in towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her cheek to his ravaged one. “I’m here.”
For a moment he seemed frozen, but then, quick enough to almost take her breath away, he pulled her to him, burying his face in her curls. “Sometimes I’m frightened,” he whispered, “frightened that I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone, that I’ll be alone again.”
“I’ll never leave you alone,” she promised, and he just held her tighter.
“If you did it would be the end of me.” There was a pause, and then he said hesitantly, “Christine, I – ”
Whatever he had intended to follow those words was unfortunately lost as Christine felt her balance begin to tip; standing upon her knees and leaning against him she was unable to stop herself as she started to lurch forwards, taking Erik with her. They tumbled to the floor and she heard a loud ripping noise from the skirts which had been bunched beneath her; she landed sprawled across Erik’s chest, their faces so close that their noses were almost touching. Impulsively she rubbed hers against his twisted one and grinned.
“I’ve never been able to do that before,” she said, and did it again just because she could.
Erik stared at her in helpless confusion. “Why would you - ”
“Eskimo kiss,” she told him, and to her relief he burst out laughing, the tension that had been in the air ever since she entered the library evaporating. “I think I’ve completely destroyed this dress.”
“I’ll buy you another. Anything you desire, Christine, you know it’s yours. The best gowns, food, wine... just say the word and Erik will get it for you,” he said, brushing back a wayward curl that had become stuck to her cheek.
Christine shook her head. “I don’t need all that. All I really want is you, and I have you here right now.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she rested a finger lightly against his lips, silencing him. “We are going to forget about Augustine Albert and what happened tonight. She is just one person, hardly even worth noticing; she doesn’t matter. For the next production you can hide her away in the back row of the chorus. Agreed?”
He nodded, and when she allowed him to speak again said wonderingly, “My Christine. When did you become so strong?”
“When I thought I was going to lose you. I think I learnt to fight there and then.” She rested her head on his shoulder, and his arm snaked around her waist. “I’ll always fight for you.”
They lay there for what seemed like hours, just listening to one another’s breathing, before Erik eventually said, “I suppose we should move. Goodness knows what Antoinette would think if she came back.” Christine giggled as they reluctantly righted themselves and he tried to brush away the scraps of paper that were clinging to what remained of her dress. He looked up at her, eyes serious. “Christine, there is something - ”
“What’s that?” she asked, attention caught by the large cream envelope that was lying amid the scores and books on his desk. It looked official, the address typed rather than written and the corner franked.
“Annie brought it this morning. It’s not important. Christine - ”
“It looks important to me. Maybe you should open it.” She climbed to her feet, barely hearing the groan of frustration Erik made behind her, and picked the letter up, holding it out to him. He refused to take it. “All right, then, I’ll open it.”
He waved a hand, which she took to be acquiescence, and so, finding a wickedly sharp letter opener in the form of a dagger under a sheaf of manuscript paper, she neatly slit the envelope and withdrew the two folded sheets within. Her mouth fell open in shock as she read the few lines typed upon the topmost, and quickly pulled out the one underneath, eyes scanning the page. As she read to the bottom she felt herself begin to cry and had to cover her mouth with one trembling hand.
“Christine? Christine, are you all right?” Erik was suddenly at her side, peering down at her in concern. “Whatever is the matter?”
Wordlessly she held out the papers to him; he took them with a frown, a frown which gradually cleared into astonishment as he took in the enormity of what was stated there in black and white. “Mon Dieu,” he murmured. “I never imagined... I thought they tried to erase all record of my existence. My mother claimed she told everyone that I had been stillborn, that they had not even bothered to name me.”
“She lied,” said Christine. “They registered you after all.” She smiled through her tears. “You have a birthday, Erik; you were born on St Valentine’s Day.”
“Erik Charles Gabriel Claudin.” As he read his fingers traced the words. “Son of Charles Etienne Claudin and Angelique Jeanette Claudin, née Aubusson. Born on the fourteenth of February...”
“You really are an angel,” she told him.
A slightly hysterical laugh broke from him. “I suppose I am.” He looked at the letter again and then back at her. “I’m two years older than I thought.”
“What does that matter? You have proof of who you are. You don’t have to be a Phantom any longer.”
Erik had to sit down. Unfortunately he tried to do so without a chair; hurriedly Christine grabbed his arm and steered him towards the sofa, which alone had remained upright during his earlier rage. For some time he did not speak, just sat there staring at the paper upon which his identity was written. It was evidently a transcript of the record book from the parish in which he had been born and she couldn’t help wondering where it had come from; though the covering letter was addressed to Monsieur Claudin, she could not believe that Erik had gone enquiring into his origins himself.
“It was Antoinette,” he said, apparently reading her thoughts. “I couldn’t remember the exact name of the place where I was born; I doubt if I ever knew it. She must have written to every town and city in Normandy to find me.” Before she could reply, he took a deep breath and continued, “Christine, there is something I need to ask you, and now seems as good a time as any since for the first time in my life I truly have a name to offer.”
Christine’s heart was in her mouth as she watched him reach into his black robes and withdraw that little velvet box she had seen earlier. Getting to his feet, he held it out to her, that hopeful expression she remembered from the day he presented her with the roses only more endearing now that she could see his whole face.
“I know this is not as romantic as it would have been had I been able to propose to you as I planned, at the ball, but...” Erik dropped to one knee, opening the box to reveal the most beautiful ring she had ever seen nestled within upon a bed of white silk. “Christine Daae, will you marry me?”
Throat constricted by surprise and emotion, Christine could only breathe one word.
“Yes.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3835
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Angel in torment.
The sobs could be heard before they reached the house, echoing around the cavern, taken and bounced back and forth until they sounded quite eerie, as though some unearthly creature were weeping in the shadows. An involuntary shiver ran down Christine’s spine and she shook herself angrily. It was foolish to entertain such fancies; there were no ghosts here and there never had been. The Opera had been haunted by nothing more than a man, and that man’s pain now filled the air, his terrible, beautiful voice drawing them to him and entangling them in his misery.
“That noise... it is just Erik, isn’t it?” Meg asked tremulously, her hand gripping Christine’s sleeve.
Madame Giry’s tongue clucked irritably. “Of course, you foolish child. Who else would it be?”
“I don’t know. It’s just... I’ve never heard him like that before.”
“I have,” Christine said, exchanging a glance with Madame, “and I wish to God I never had. I hurt him so much...”
“What’s done is done, Christine,” the ballet mistress told her. “We cannot change the past.”
Meg turned wide eyes on her friend. “Christine...” She paused before continuing, as though afraid to ask the question, “What... what did you do?”
Christine realised that she had never told Meg about her transgression, about that moment when, unable to contain her curiosity about the mysterious, seductive figure that had appeared in her dressing room mirror and taken her to his underground realm, she shattered the illusion that had sustained them both for nearly five years. “I found out his secret,” she said, tears prickling in her own eyes as she remembered wandering through the house looking for her strange host and finding him in the music room. He sat before what appeared to her astonishment to be a church organ, its pipes climbing the far wall, his long white fingers moving deftly over the keys; the music he produced was peculiar, discordant, quite unlike anything she had ever heard. After a few moments he stopped, drawing a folio towards him and scribbling furiously; on tiptoe she crept up behind him and watched as he worked, his pen skipping across the manuscript paper, the notes apparently just flowing from him onto the page. Entirely wrapped up in his masterpiece, Erik had not even noticed her presence in the room and was completely unprepared when, after a few near misses that were almost like a bizarre game of hide and seek, she reached out and tore away his mask, revealing the horror beneath... Christine shook her head. “If only I had controlled myself, things might have been so different. I can still see his eyes, the way he looked at me when his anger was spent. I’ve never seen eyes so sad. It was as though he was bearing all the sorrows of the world.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Madame Giry said softly before Meg could speak. “I told him many times that he had to bring the deception to an end, to show you properly who he was. It was quite natural that you would be curious.”
“I should have waited, not ripped away his defences,” Christine countered.
“There was no way that you could have known what the mask represented. You wished to see your Angel’s face, as he must have known you would.” Madame sighed. “I have no idea exactly what he had planned to do after bringing you down here. Perhaps he didn’t really know himself.”
Another cry rent the air, reminding them of their purpose in the cellars. As Madame Giry raised the lantern Christine dug in the velvet evening bag that dangled from her wrist for the key to the front door. The lamplight revealed a dark line in the wall, the almost hidden entrance to the subterranean house; Christine inserted the key into the lock but she had no need to turn it for at a touch the door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges. Beyond it the hallway was shrouded in darkness but the telltale crunch of broken glass under her feet was eloquent enough. The only illumination came from a thin sliver of light beneath the door of the library; it was from here that the weeping came, louder now and very obviously human. It came as no surprise that Erik had taken refuge in the one place he felt safe: amongst his beloved books and instruments.
Cautiously, their steps light and almost soundless on the thick carpets, the three women entered the room. It was a mess, furniture overturned, papers strewn across the Persian rugs and torn into confetti; a lamp had been smashed, its body lying crookedly in the empty fireplace surrounded by the shattered green glass of its ornate shade. Before the grate huddled a pitiful figure in black and gold robes, one that had been so majestic and assured barely an hour ago but which now resembled nothing so much as a discarded bundle of washing. His shoulders heaved with each rough breath, hands clawing at his face, at the hated deformity; Christine could barely restrain a gasp as she realised that the darkness that ran between his fingers was not shadow but blood.
“Why?” he asked suddenly, making her jump. His voice was harsh, almost unrecognisable. “Why did you allow it? Why did you allow me to know for one blissful moment how it actually feels to be normal? Why did you show me the light only to snatch it away, to remind me of what I truly am?”
Christine opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it again when Erik raised a fist, shaking it at something or someone only he could see.
“What was it, eh? Was the monster getting above himself? Did you have to push him back down into the dirt? Did you?” The question rose into a cry, its volume increasing into a keening wail which only died away when, as though some invisible string had been cut, his hand fell back to his side and he slumped forwards, his forehead almost resting on his bent knees. His next words were so quiet she almost missed them. He sounded impossibly weary. “Have you not tormented me enough?”
Madame Giry stepped forwards but Christine shook her head, gesturing for them to remain by the door. Meg nodded, eyes wide and frightened, casting glances towards the crumpled form of the Phantom as though she could not bear to look away. Madame’s lips were clamped in a thin line but she allowed Christine to do as she wished and set down the lantern upon a nearby table that had remained upright. Its glow did much to assist the feeble light of the single candle that flickered on the piano as Christine carefully picked her way towards the fireplace. She moved slowly, knowing that Erik could become a raging fury with very little provocation, and awkwardly crouched down beside him, hampered by her skirts and train.
“Erik,” she said softly, trying to catch his eye. “Erik, it’s me, it’s Christine. It’s all right; you don’t have to hide from me, my Angel.”
“Go away.” The words were muffled, cracked by tears.
“Erik, please don’t - ”
“I said go away,” he repeated. “Leave the monster be.”
“You’re not a monster, Erik,” Christine told him, and it took all of her strength not to flinch away when his head suddenly whipped round like a viper about to strike and his face, undamaged features twisted in fury and only making the distortion look even worse, was inches away from hers. His teeth were bared in a snarl, the nostril on the complete side of his nose flaring like a dragon’s, and the rage that burnt in his mismatched eyes almost made her heart stop. Blood, that she could now see came from several cuts to the palm of his right hand, was smeared all over his deformity. It was a truly dreadful sight.
“Really?” he enquired, head on one side as he considered her reaction. “Oh, but of course! I’m a handsome devil aren’t I, Christine? I have a beauty all my own!” He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. “How proud you must be to have made such a catch, to have snared a creature such as me!”
“I love you just the way you are,” she said, determined not to give him what he wanted and turn away. Reaching out, she pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. “Your beauty is in here.”
“I fear others would not agree with you.” Erik’s wild gaze found the Girys hovering in the darkness. He swept out an arm and gave a theatrical bow. “Come in, Madame, come in, I make no charge for those who wish to stare at the freak. By all means, come and feast your eyes upon my accursed ugliness! I am a horror, Little Meg, am I not?”
Meg took a step backwards, hands raised as though to ward him away. “No,” she mumbled, “No, please - ”
“Erik, stop!” Christine cried, but he took no notice, leering at her friend’s discomfort, a dark, mad chuckle in this throat.
“I’ll wager you’ve never in your life seen a creature like me,” he said, climbing unsteadily to his feet. “Why don’t you come and take a closer look? Come on, don’t be shy: the Living Corpse will share his kiss of death with you!”
“No!” Meg closed her eyes, retreating behind Madame Giry, who seemed momentarily paralysed, torn between rushing to the unstable man’s side and protecting her daughter. “No, Erik, please don’t!”
“Erik, enough!” Before the ballet mistress could move Christine grabbed his arm, pulling him back down beside her on the rug. He gave a wordless growl, trying to throw her off but she held on tight, somehow forcing him to his knees despite his superior strength. Capturing his face between her hands she stared him deep in the eyes; his breath came in great gasps, chest hitching with each one and matching the furious beating of her own heart. Slowly, gradually, the anger began to fade, leaving behind only confusion as tears began to pool once more and he caught his trembling lower lip between his teeth, desperate not to let them fall. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him, keeping her voice soft and even. “You are not that person any more.”
“The world believes that I am,” he whispered. “They will never change. How can I fight against nature?”
“I will help you,” Christine promised. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
“Sweet, naive Christine.” Erik lifted a hand, stroking her cheek with one long, thin finger. “How I wish that were true.”
“It is true,” she insisted. He shook his head, closing his eyes. “You cannot let the prejudice of one person destroy everything you have accomplished.”
“Don’t you see, my darling girl? It is too late; the damage has already been done.” A single tear rolled down the deformed side of his face, its journey tracing the lumps and crevices. “I can never go up there again.”
A hoarse sob broke from his chest and without another word Christine gathered him to her, enfolding him in her arms as he wept into her shoulder like a child. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” she murmured, rocking him gently and running one hand over his hair as though she were petting a frightened bird. Glancing up she met Madame Giry’s gaze; concern was writ large upon the older woman’s normally stern features. She raised her eyebrows in an obvious question; Christine shook her head, returning her attention to Erik. He was calming down now, sobs fading into hiccups, his fingers gripping the expensive fabric of her dress as though he feared to let her go in case she disappeared. They sat there quietly on the hearthrug for some time, Christine ignoring the protests made by her legs and back as she continued to awkwardly hold him, happy to allow him to take comfort from her embrace. Behind her she heard the door gently close and knew that the Girys had left them alone.
“I... I’m sorry,” Erik said eventually.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Christine told him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’ve made a fool of myself again.” He took a deep breath which turned into a gulp. “Poor Little Meg... It seems I am always having to apologise to her.”
“She will understand.”
“All of you spend so much time and effort understanding... why do you tolerate me when all I do is cause you trouble?” It was a genuine question, and Christine pulled back slightly so that she could see his face. Despite its current bloody mess, some of which she realised had rubbed off on her gown and probably ruined it completely, he did look completely bewildered. Deliberately she bent her head and touched her lips to his.
“Do I really have to explain it to you?” she asked. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, and then he shook his head. Christine kissed his mangled forehead. “Good. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
She went to fetch bandages and iodine; when she returned he had not moved, but was sitting cross-legged before the fireplace, staring into the empty grate at the remains of the lamp. Christine thought she saw something, a small square box, in his palm before he realised she was there and it vanished into the folds of his black cloak. Kneeling down on the rug before him she held out her hand; after a beat he put his damaged one into hers as dispassionately as a horse presenting its foot to the farrier. Gently she examined the wounds, several shallow gashes that looked painful; some still contained shards of green glass which she delicately removed with the tweezers she had found in the bathroom. Erik made no sound throughout, not even when she dabbed the cuts with antiseptic, though it was obvious to her how much it hurt; she could feel his pulse quicken and his minute flinch at the sting of the iodine. With practise gained from assisting Madame Giry in changing the dressings upon his injured shoulder she bound up his hand in white linen and turned her attention to the blood drying upon his face. A soft sigh escaped him as she washed away the gore, careful of the paper-thin skin that covered the distorted bone and muscle, her touch feather-light.
“What did she do, Erik?” Christine asked quietly, dropping the cloth into a bowl of water which was now a rusty red. “Augustine, I mean. Why did she take your mask?”
“For the same reason as everyone else: she wanted to see what lies beneath.” He looked at her. “Just as you did.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I was young and foolish and too curious for my own good. Augustine Albert does not have that excuse, so why did she do it?”
“I think...” Erik turned his face away, flushing himself in evident embarrassment. “I think she wanted to... kiss me,” he said, his voice so low that Christine almost didn’t catch the words. “I have no idea why.”
“Oh, Erik.” She smiled sadly. “Is it so hard to believe that someone would find you attractive?”
“How can I when all that ever follows is a scream?” he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. “Dear God, those screams... I can always hear them, even after so many years. They seem to haunt my very existence.”
“Not any more. You don’t have to think of them any more.” Christine leaned in towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her cheek to his ravaged one. “I’m here.”
For a moment he seemed frozen, but then, quick enough to almost take her breath away, he pulled her to him, burying his face in her curls. “Sometimes I’m frightened,” he whispered, “frightened that I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone, that I’ll be alone again.”
“I’ll never leave you alone,” she promised, and he just held her tighter.
“If you did it would be the end of me.” There was a pause, and then he said hesitantly, “Christine, I – ”
Whatever he had intended to follow those words was unfortunately lost as Christine felt her balance begin to tip; standing upon her knees and leaning against him she was unable to stop herself as she started to lurch forwards, taking Erik with her. They tumbled to the floor and she heard a loud ripping noise from the skirts which had been bunched beneath her; she landed sprawled across Erik’s chest, their faces so close that their noses were almost touching. Impulsively she rubbed hers against his twisted one and grinned.
“I’ve never been able to do that before,” she said, and did it again just because she could.
Erik stared at her in helpless confusion. “Why would you - ”
“Eskimo kiss,” she told him, and to her relief he burst out laughing, the tension that had been in the air ever since she entered the library evaporating. “I think I’ve completely destroyed this dress.”
“I’ll buy you another. Anything you desire, Christine, you know it’s yours. The best gowns, food, wine... just say the word and Erik will get it for you,” he said, brushing back a wayward curl that had become stuck to her cheek.
Christine shook her head. “I don’t need all that. All I really want is you, and I have you here right now.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she rested a finger lightly against his lips, silencing him. “We are going to forget about Augustine Albert and what happened tonight. She is just one person, hardly even worth noticing; she doesn’t matter. For the next production you can hide her away in the back row of the chorus. Agreed?”
He nodded, and when she allowed him to speak again said wonderingly, “My Christine. When did you become so strong?”
“When I thought I was going to lose you. I think I learnt to fight there and then.” She rested her head on his shoulder, and his arm snaked around her waist. “I’ll always fight for you.”
They lay there for what seemed like hours, just listening to one another’s breathing, before Erik eventually said, “I suppose we should move. Goodness knows what Antoinette would think if she came back.” Christine giggled as they reluctantly righted themselves and he tried to brush away the scraps of paper that were clinging to what remained of her dress. He looked up at her, eyes serious. “Christine, there is something - ”
“What’s that?” she asked, attention caught by the large cream envelope that was lying amid the scores and books on his desk. It looked official, the address typed rather than written and the corner franked.
“Annie brought it this morning. It’s not important. Christine - ”
“It looks important to me. Maybe you should open it.” She climbed to her feet, barely hearing the groan of frustration Erik made behind her, and picked the letter up, holding it out to him. He refused to take it. “All right, then, I’ll open it.”
He waved a hand, which she took to be acquiescence, and so, finding a wickedly sharp letter opener in the form of a dagger under a sheaf of manuscript paper, she neatly slit the envelope and withdrew the two folded sheets within. Her mouth fell open in shock as she read the few lines typed upon the topmost, and quickly pulled out the one underneath, eyes scanning the page. As she read to the bottom she felt herself begin to cry and had to cover her mouth with one trembling hand.
“Christine? Christine, are you all right?” Erik was suddenly at her side, peering down at her in concern. “Whatever is the matter?”
Wordlessly she held out the papers to him; he took them with a frown, a frown which gradually cleared into astonishment as he took in the enormity of what was stated there in black and white. “Mon Dieu,” he murmured. “I never imagined... I thought they tried to erase all record of my existence. My mother claimed she told everyone that I had been stillborn, that they had not even bothered to name me.”
“She lied,” said Christine. “They registered you after all.” She smiled through her tears. “You have a birthday, Erik; you were born on St Valentine’s Day.”
“Erik Charles Gabriel Claudin.” As he read his fingers traced the words. “Son of Charles Etienne Claudin and Angelique Jeanette Claudin, née Aubusson. Born on the fourteenth of February...”
“You really are an angel,” she told him.
A slightly hysterical laugh broke from him. “I suppose I am.” He looked at the letter again and then back at her. “I’m two years older than I thought.”
“What does that matter? You have proof of who you are. You don’t have to be a Phantom any longer.”
Erik had to sit down. Unfortunately he tried to do so without a chair; hurriedly Christine grabbed his arm and steered him towards the sofa, which alone had remained upright during his earlier rage. For some time he did not speak, just sat there staring at the paper upon which his identity was written. It was evidently a transcript of the record book from the parish in which he had been born and she couldn’t help wondering where it had come from; though the covering letter was addressed to Monsieur Claudin, she could not believe that Erik had gone enquiring into his origins himself.
“It was Antoinette,” he said, apparently reading her thoughts. “I couldn’t remember the exact name of the place where I was born; I doubt if I ever knew it. She must have written to every town and city in Normandy to find me.” Before she could reply, he took a deep breath and continued, “Christine, there is something I need to ask you, and now seems as good a time as any since for the first time in my life I truly have a name to offer.”
Christine’s heart was in her mouth as she watched him reach into his black robes and withdraw that little velvet box she had seen earlier. Getting to his feet, he held it out to her, that hopeful expression she remembered from the day he presented her with the roses only more endearing now that she could see his whole face.
“I know this is not as romantic as it would have been had I been able to propose to you as I planned, at the ball, but...” Erik dropped to one knee, opening the box to reveal the most beautiful ring she had ever seen nestled within upon a bed of white silk. “Christine Daae, will you marry me?”
Throat constricted by surprise and emotion, Christine could only breathe one word.
“Yes.”
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Date: 2013-01-18 02:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 04:19 pm (UTC)