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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 7/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2090
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: After the masquerade, a confrontation with Red Death.
Author's Notes: Intended to be a Phantom version of my series Jottings from a Doctor's Journal, a collection of fragments, vignettes and missing scenes. Mainly musical-based, but I have picked up bits and pieces from various places.
CHASING DEATH
Christine looked around her in confusion.
In the wake of the Phantom’s entrance everyone was talking, loudly and over one another. Women were looking faint, men angry; Monsieur Andre stood dumbly holding the leather satchel which contained the Ghost’s opera while Monsieur Firmin just muttered under his breath. Raoul had gone racing after Madame Giry, who seemed anxious to leave the foyer, and the two of them had vanished into crowd leaving Christine alone. It was as though she were tainted by her association with the Phantom; no one would come near her, instead directing pitying glances her way. Carlotta was watching her, whispering something to Piangi behind her fan, something which made the usually kindly tenor turn wondering eyes on Christine.
There was no sign of Erik. Aided by his magician’s tricks, he had returned to his tunnels below, to the darkness that was his home. Christine’s hand stole to her throat, to the place where her engagement ring had hung until a few minutes ago, and she knew that she had to speak to him, to demand its return. Never had she stood up to him before, quailing beneath the force of his anger, but in this instance she could do nothing else. This time he had gone too far, presumed too much, and he had to be told. There was no one else who could confront him. Turning, she ran from the opulent room, hearing the mutters and sibilant whispers behind her but for once in her life caring little for them, heading for the one place in the Opera which had always been her sanctuary.
The mirror was still open a crack, revealing that though he may have favoured trap doors through which to dramatically disappear, Erik had emerged from the depths this way. Christine was grateful that he had not checked to make sure that the glass was properly closed; it was unusual for him to be so careless, but she had never discovered how to operate the pivot for herself. Now she slipped through the gap, snatching up a candle from her dressing table on the way and feeling for the niche in the tunnel wall in which Erik kept a box of matches. The flame flared into life, sending shadows dancing over the rocky walls and the icy caress of fear down Christine’s spine.
Shivering and wishing that she had thought to also bring a shawl, she plunged into the darkness. The passages were cold and damp, a far cry from the hazy memories of her first trip through them to the house by the lake. Those memories were shrouded in mist, as though they were the experiences of someone else, told to her many years ago and vaguely recalled. In her mind’s eye, the tunnels were magical, breathtaking, illuminated by hundreds of brilliant candles. In reality, they were musty and unpleasant, uneven beneath her feet; cobwebs clung to her dress and lodged in her curls, and more than once she stifled a scream as a rat ran over her toes. It was a horrible place – how could Erik have lived down here for so long? Because he has no choice, she told herself, because the world has looked upon him and turned its back.
Quite suddenly, she felt incredibly vulnerable, creeping trembling and alone through the unknown in little more than a party dress, intending to confront a man who was so obviously angry with her. She knew what he was capable of, had seen the terrible fate of Joseph Buquet and heard the Phantom’s threats – was this truly a sensible idea?
Raoul would say no, of course, and forbid her to go, but he did not understand. Even knowing what she did, Christine missed her Angel – those six months with no word from him, no idea whether he was alive or dead, had been almost unbearable. For the first time in five years, there was no music in her mind, and she felt bereft, as though she had lost a part of herself. His music had been her comfort, her salvation since her father’s death, and now... now she was truly alone. Her Angel had broken his promise and abandoned her at last. The loss was almost a physical pain, like grieving all over again.
Why did everything have to change? she wondered, If only we could have gone on as before, when we were happy...
Eventually, she reached her destination. The underground house on the shore of Lake Averne finally loomed out of the darkness, its front door ajar. She glanced at the rocky jetty before it and could see the gondola bobbing gently in the inky water. He was here, then, had retreated to his lair like a wounded animal. Hiding once more.
Christine hesitantly pushed open the door; there was no light in the hallway but it spilled from beneath the entrance to the music room. Tiptoeing towards it, her feet in their fanciful silver boots silent upon the carpet, she took a deep breath and called hesitantly,
“Erik? Erik, are you there?”
The door swung inwards before she could touch it. He stood ahead of her, beside the piano – the plumed hat and skeleton mask lay discarded on the lid. As he turned, slowly, Christine steeled herself for the sight of his distorted face but the deformity was covered by the familiar porcelain, cold and impassive. In contrast, the expression on his visible features was one of surprise, an emotion he immediately fought to conceal with only partial success.
“To what do I owe this honour, Mademoiselle?” he enquired, managing to sound almost casual. One long, white hand rested upon the heavy, intricately patterned cloth which covered the piano, the spread fingers reminding Christine uncomfortably of a spider.
She wished that she were not wearing such flimsy attire as the pink and blue masquerade costume with its frivolous stars and spangles; she felt like a child who had been playing in the dressing-up box. But then, she reflected, they both looked equally ridiculous, like two characters from a fairytale. Their appearance merely added to the unreal qualities of the situation. “I wanted to talk,” she said, and to her own ears her voice sounded thin and shaky. She cursed it inwardly - he would surely feel nothing but contempt for her.
His eyebrow arched and his voice was almost a purr as he replied, “After six months’ silence? Why now, my dear? What could possibly have drawn you back to me?”
“The silence was not entirely on my part,” she informed him, nettled by his tone. “I waited for days by the mirror, but you did not come! Why did you do that to me, Erik? You took away the music - ”
Mismatched eyes flashed and she knew that it was the Phantom rather than Erik who stood before her. “What did you expect from me, Christine?” he demanded. “Did you think that you could betray me as you did and still expect me to return, to come trotting back to you like some... some lapdog?”
Christine blinked, her turn to be surprised. “Betray you? What - ”
Two long strides brought him close to her, imposing in his red finery. He glared down at her from his greater height. “I heard you, my angel, heard you with him. I offered my heart to you, laid it at your dainty little feet, and you saw fit to trample it into the mud. Cruel, cruel Christine!”
“You... you were there? On the roof?” Christine’s hand stole to her throat, instinctively reaching for the ring that was no longer there. All of a sudden the night of Il Muto came back to her in all its disastrous glory. The horror, the chaos, all the things she had said... “You heard...”
“Yes, I heard. I heard you begging that boy to save you from the monster that stalks the dark, that same monster whom you admitted with another breath had freed your soul,” Erik spat. “You cannot have it both ways, Christine, cannot hold onto both the light and the darkness at once.” His tone was suddenly achingly bitter. “Experience has taught me that much.”
“I did... I did not...”
“Did not what? Not mean it? Then you must learn to choose your words more carefully.” With a flick of his wrist, her broken necklace, the ring dangling from it, was there in his hand, gleaming in the candlelight. “Did you mean it when you accepted this bauble, or are you leading us both a dance?”
Christine snatched at it, but he held it out of her reach like a small boy delighting in his power over her. “Stop it!” she cried, feeling tears well in her eyes. “You call me cruel? Why must you torment me like this?”
“Torment you?” The lines of his visible features were hard, as though the living half of his face were carved from the same unyielding material as the mask. “How do you think I have felt these last six months, knowing that you had left me for that boy, that you were in his arms? You have no idea of torment, Christine, none at all!”
The tears spilled over. “Then show me some mercy!” she begged. “Do you truly wish to make me suffer so?” A strangled sob escaped her, and she clapped a hand to her mouth, trying desperately to stifle the sound.
He heard it all the same. Erik looked stricken, his face white against the dramatic backdrop of his scarlet cloak. He fell to his knees before her, its folds settling around him like the plumage of some exotic bird. “Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I cannot bear to see you cry! Erik has been a fool, a jealous fool!” He reached out to grasp the hem of her dress, bringing it to his lips.
“No, Erik!” Christine pulled his fingers away, sinking down beside him. “Please, don’t.”
He shied away from her touch. “Erik has hurt his Christine, made her sad.”
“Your actions have made me sad, that is true,” she told him sincerely. “There is a darkness within you which scares me more than I can say. The Phantom... he terrifies me, Erik. I have never been as frightened of anything as I am of you when you become that man. I believe he could be capable of anything.”
He gazed at her in mute appeal, blinking back tears of his own. Those pleading eyes, which both threaten and adore...
“But,” Christine continued, “I know that within the Phantom is my Angel of Music, a man so kind and gentle, who has been my guide and guardian for so long...”
“If that is true then how could you leave your Angel, Christine? After all that he has done for you?” he asked, the bitter edge returning to his voice. She tried to recapture his hand, but he pulled away.
My Angel left me, she thought sadly, but swallowed and said, “We all... we all have to grow up, Erik. My father told me, there came a time when Little Lotte no longer needed her Angel of Music.”
Erik stood, smoothly, towering over her once more. “And did you father reveal what became of the Angel, Christine? Can you tell me that?”
Christine stared up at him, realising she had lost him. If only the real world were like a fairy story! “I... I don’t know,” she admitted.
“I think I do,” Erik said, his voice low and dangerous, “The abandoned Angel simply ceased to exist, his reason for living no longer there. Is that what you expect of me? I gave you everything!”
“Erik, please...” She held out her hand to him again, desperately, but he did not even spare it a glance, the Phantom back in charge.
Instead he drew the blood red cloak around him, fixing her with that disconcerting stare she had come to know so well. “I have made good use of my renewed solitude. My life’s work is complete at last. You will sing in my Don Juan, Christine – no one else can, the part was written for you and you alone. Should you choose to accept my assistance in preparing for your performance, you know where to find me. Tell those idiots in charge that they will be hearing from me very soon.”
With a swirl of velvet fire, he was gone, leaving Christine crumpled on the floor, head in her hands, as her tears began to fall again.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2090
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: After the masquerade, a confrontation with Red Death.
Author's Notes: Intended to be a Phantom version of my series Jottings from a Doctor's Journal, a collection of fragments, vignettes and missing scenes. Mainly musical-based, but I have picked up bits and pieces from various places.
CHASING DEATH
Christine looked around her in confusion.
In the wake of the Phantom’s entrance everyone was talking, loudly and over one another. Women were looking faint, men angry; Monsieur Andre stood dumbly holding the leather satchel which contained the Ghost’s opera while Monsieur Firmin just muttered under his breath. Raoul had gone racing after Madame Giry, who seemed anxious to leave the foyer, and the two of them had vanished into crowd leaving Christine alone. It was as though she were tainted by her association with the Phantom; no one would come near her, instead directing pitying glances her way. Carlotta was watching her, whispering something to Piangi behind her fan, something which made the usually kindly tenor turn wondering eyes on Christine.
There was no sign of Erik. Aided by his magician’s tricks, he had returned to his tunnels below, to the darkness that was his home. Christine’s hand stole to her throat, to the place where her engagement ring had hung until a few minutes ago, and she knew that she had to speak to him, to demand its return. Never had she stood up to him before, quailing beneath the force of his anger, but in this instance she could do nothing else. This time he had gone too far, presumed too much, and he had to be told. There was no one else who could confront him. Turning, she ran from the opulent room, hearing the mutters and sibilant whispers behind her but for once in her life caring little for them, heading for the one place in the Opera which had always been her sanctuary.
The mirror was still open a crack, revealing that though he may have favoured trap doors through which to dramatically disappear, Erik had emerged from the depths this way. Christine was grateful that he had not checked to make sure that the glass was properly closed; it was unusual for him to be so careless, but she had never discovered how to operate the pivot for herself. Now she slipped through the gap, snatching up a candle from her dressing table on the way and feeling for the niche in the tunnel wall in which Erik kept a box of matches. The flame flared into life, sending shadows dancing over the rocky walls and the icy caress of fear down Christine’s spine.
Shivering and wishing that she had thought to also bring a shawl, she plunged into the darkness. The passages were cold and damp, a far cry from the hazy memories of her first trip through them to the house by the lake. Those memories were shrouded in mist, as though they were the experiences of someone else, told to her many years ago and vaguely recalled. In her mind’s eye, the tunnels were magical, breathtaking, illuminated by hundreds of brilliant candles. In reality, they were musty and unpleasant, uneven beneath her feet; cobwebs clung to her dress and lodged in her curls, and more than once she stifled a scream as a rat ran over her toes. It was a horrible place – how could Erik have lived down here for so long? Because he has no choice, she told herself, because the world has looked upon him and turned its back.
Quite suddenly, she felt incredibly vulnerable, creeping trembling and alone through the unknown in little more than a party dress, intending to confront a man who was so obviously angry with her. She knew what he was capable of, had seen the terrible fate of Joseph Buquet and heard the Phantom’s threats – was this truly a sensible idea?
Raoul would say no, of course, and forbid her to go, but he did not understand. Even knowing what she did, Christine missed her Angel – those six months with no word from him, no idea whether he was alive or dead, had been almost unbearable. For the first time in five years, there was no music in her mind, and she felt bereft, as though she had lost a part of herself. His music had been her comfort, her salvation since her father’s death, and now... now she was truly alone. Her Angel had broken his promise and abandoned her at last. The loss was almost a physical pain, like grieving all over again.
Why did everything have to change? she wondered, If only we could have gone on as before, when we were happy...
Eventually, she reached her destination. The underground house on the shore of Lake Averne finally loomed out of the darkness, its front door ajar. She glanced at the rocky jetty before it and could see the gondola bobbing gently in the inky water. He was here, then, had retreated to his lair like a wounded animal. Hiding once more.
Christine hesitantly pushed open the door; there was no light in the hallway but it spilled from beneath the entrance to the music room. Tiptoeing towards it, her feet in their fanciful silver boots silent upon the carpet, she took a deep breath and called hesitantly,
“Erik? Erik, are you there?”
The door swung inwards before she could touch it. He stood ahead of her, beside the piano – the plumed hat and skeleton mask lay discarded on the lid. As he turned, slowly, Christine steeled herself for the sight of his distorted face but the deformity was covered by the familiar porcelain, cold and impassive. In contrast, the expression on his visible features was one of surprise, an emotion he immediately fought to conceal with only partial success.
“To what do I owe this honour, Mademoiselle?” he enquired, managing to sound almost casual. One long, white hand rested upon the heavy, intricately patterned cloth which covered the piano, the spread fingers reminding Christine uncomfortably of a spider.
She wished that she were not wearing such flimsy attire as the pink and blue masquerade costume with its frivolous stars and spangles; she felt like a child who had been playing in the dressing-up box. But then, she reflected, they both looked equally ridiculous, like two characters from a fairytale. Their appearance merely added to the unreal qualities of the situation. “I wanted to talk,” she said, and to her own ears her voice sounded thin and shaky. She cursed it inwardly - he would surely feel nothing but contempt for her.
His eyebrow arched and his voice was almost a purr as he replied, “After six months’ silence? Why now, my dear? What could possibly have drawn you back to me?”
“The silence was not entirely on my part,” she informed him, nettled by his tone. “I waited for days by the mirror, but you did not come! Why did you do that to me, Erik? You took away the music - ”
Mismatched eyes flashed and she knew that it was the Phantom rather than Erik who stood before her. “What did you expect from me, Christine?” he demanded. “Did you think that you could betray me as you did and still expect me to return, to come trotting back to you like some... some lapdog?”
Christine blinked, her turn to be surprised. “Betray you? What - ”
Two long strides brought him close to her, imposing in his red finery. He glared down at her from his greater height. “I heard you, my angel, heard you with him. I offered my heart to you, laid it at your dainty little feet, and you saw fit to trample it into the mud. Cruel, cruel Christine!”
“You... you were there? On the roof?” Christine’s hand stole to her throat, instinctively reaching for the ring that was no longer there. All of a sudden the night of Il Muto came back to her in all its disastrous glory. The horror, the chaos, all the things she had said... “You heard...”
“Yes, I heard. I heard you begging that boy to save you from the monster that stalks the dark, that same monster whom you admitted with another breath had freed your soul,” Erik spat. “You cannot have it both ways, Christine, cannot hold onto both the light and the darkness at once.” His tone was suddenly achingly bitter. “Experience has taught me that much.”
“I did... I did not...”
“Did not what? Not mean it? Then you must learn to choose your words more carefully.” With a flick of his wrist, her broken necklace, the ring dangling from it, was there in his hand, gleaming in the candlelight. “Did you mean it when you accepted this bauble, or are you leading us both a dance?”
Christine snatched at it, but he held it out of her reach like a small boy delighting in his power over her. “Stop it!” she cried, feeling tears well in her eyes. “You call me cruel? Why must you torment me like this?”
“Torment you?” The lines of his visible features were hard, as though the living half of his face were carved from the same unyielding material as the mask. “How do you think I have felt these last six months, knowing that you had left me for that boy, that you were in his arms? You have no idea of torment, Christine, none at all!”
The tears spilled over. “Then show me some mercy!” she begged. “Do you truly wish to make me suffer so?” A strangled sob escaped her, and she clapped a hand to her mouth, trying desperately to stifle the sound.
He heard it all the same. Erik looked stricken, his face white against the dramatic backdrop of his scarlet cloak. He fell to his knees before her, its folds settling around him like the plumage of some exotic bird. “Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I cannot bear to see you cry! Erik has been a fool, a jealous fool!” He reached out to grasp the hem of her dress, bringing it to his lips.
“No, Erik!” Christine pulled his fingers away, sinking down beside him. “Please, don’t.”
He shied away from her touch. “Erik has hurt his Christine, made her sad.”
“Your actions have made me sad, that is true,” she told him sincerely. “There is a darkness within you which scares me more than I can say. The Phantom... he terrifies me, Erik. I have never been as frightened of anything as I am of you when you become that man. I believe he could be capable of anything.”
He gazed at her in mute appeal, blinking back tears of his own. Those pleading eyes, which both threaten and adore...
“But,” Christine continued, “I know that within the Phantom is my Angel of Music, a man so kind and gentle, who has been my guide and guardian for so long...”
“If that is true then how could you leave your Angel, Christine? After all that he has done for you?” he asked, the bitter edge returning to his voice. She tried to recapture his hand, but he pulled away.
My Angel left me, she thought sadly, but swallowed and said, “We all... we all have to grow up, Erik. My father told me, there came a time when Little Lotte no longer needed her Angel of Music.”
Erik stood, smoothly, towering over her once more. “And did you father reveal what became of the Angel, Christine? Can you tell me that?”
Christine stared up at him, realising she had lost him. If only the real world were like a fairy story! “I... I don’t know,” she admitted.
“I think I do,” Erik said, his voice low and dangerous, “The abandoned Angel simply ceased to exist, his reason for living no longer there. Is that what you expect of me? I gave you everything!”
“Erik, please...” She held out her hand to him again, desperately, but he did not even spare it a glance, the Phantom back in charge.
Instead he drew the blood red cloak around him, fixing her with that disconcerting stare she had come to know so well. “I have made good use of my renewed solitude. My life’s work is complete at last. You will sing in my Don Juan, Christine – no one else can, the part was written for you and you alone. Should you choose to accept my assistance in preparing for your performance, you know where to find me. Tell those idiots in charge that they will be hearing from me very soon.”
With a swirl of velvet fire, he was gone, leaving Christine crumpled on the floor, head in her hands, as her tears began to fall again.
