charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2012-02-03 05:43 pm
charleygirl) wrote2012-02-03 05:43 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Phantom of the Opera | Beyond the Green Baize Door 25/?
Title: Beyond the Green Baize Door 25/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2424
Rating: G
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: Christine and her Angel have some matters to discuss.
Author's Note: The title comes from Enya's track of the same name, from her album And Winter Came
DREAMS ARE MORE PRECIOUS
The snow had almost stopped, but it was still bitingly cold on the roof.
Christine stood hugging herself tightly beneath her cloak and remembering the almost balmy weather that night in June. Freezing snowflakes crackled beneath her feet as she turned, glancing up at the huge statue of Apollo looming above her and wondering where Erik had been hiding while she made her frightened, foolish appeal to Raoul. He knew so well how to blend completely with the shadows, concealing himself in their embrace; even had she been looking she knew that she would never have found him.
In the distance, first one clock chimed the hour, then another and another until every church and public building had taken up the refrain. There was movement somewhere beyond Apollo; though she saw nothing, she knew he was there. His presence was almost a living thing, reaching out to touch her.
“Angel or father, friend or Phantom... who is it there staring?” she called softly, adding when he did not reply, “Does that gaze I feel upon me belong to my Angel of Music or the Opera Ghost?”
A long moment passed before his voice floated towards her on the icy breeze. “Are they not one and the same?”
“Not to me. It is my friend I wish to see, the friend who listened to my hopes and fears, who promised to protect me and sang me to sleep when my grief became too much to bear. I hope that friend is still there, somewhere; I wish so much to speak with him once more.”
“He is here.” The light from the surrounding buildings and the streetlamps below them revealed his silhouette against the clearing sky. “But - forgive me - has not Little Lotte forsaken her angel?”
Christine felt herself colour slightly at the reminder of that particular conversation. She could still see the hurt and anger in his eyes when she spoke of the end of the story. “I am no longer Little Lotte. Sometimes I wonder whether I ever was.”
“You wish to give up your dreams?” Erik had moved a little closer, and she could see him more clearly. Though he was wrapped in his cloak, his hat tilted over his face at the familiar angle that would have looked rakish had she not known what it was designed to hide, he seemed smaller somehow, less intimidating. He still towered over her, but she did not feel that instinctive need to back away. The air about him did not crackle with its usual danger and she relaxed a fraction – the Phantom was absent.
“Some would say that it was time I put away childish things,” she replied.
“There is nothing wrong in dreaming, Christine. Let no one tell you otherwise.” He sounded so incredibly fierce, his wonderful voice quivering with emotion. Somehow, he had come up beside her without her noticing, his tread as silent as a cat, and now stood looking over the rooftops beyond them, towards the Palais-Royal and Notre Dame. She was presented with his good side, and felt a pang of regret as she was given a glimpse of what he could have been, had he not suffered from the cruelty of nature’s touch. “When you have nothing else to live for, when hope is almost completely exhausted, dreaming can keep you alive.”
“But surely it is possible to dream too much? Eventually we all have to live in the real world.”
Erik’s lip curled slightly, and his tone was contemptous. “There is little in the real world which appeals, I find.”
A question suddenly sprang onto her tongue, one she had never even considered asking before, and would probably not have dared. “Is that how it began, then, the legend of the Phantom? Was it your own escape from reality?”
He was silent for some time, and Christine found herself holding her breath. Had she angered him? No... There was no stiffening of his spine, no raising of his head in that regal, assured fashion. Instead, much to her surprise, he leaned forwards, resting his hands on the ledge in front of them, his long fingers whiter than ever in the moonlight. His cufflinks and the ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand gleamed like miniature stars. “Perhaps...” he said quietly. “I had never really considered it that way, but yes... perhaps it was. More than just a mask behind which to hide.” A sigh escaped him. “Why did you ask me here, Christine? This place holds no fond memories for me.”
“I could think of nowhere else that we would not be overheard.” She winced inwardly at her tactlessness. A gust of cold air stirred their cloaks and she moved away from the edge of the roof, turning her chilled face from the wind’s bite.
“After our earlier encounter I had not thought that you would wish to see me. You made your feelings perfectly clear, did you not?”
“I was angry, angry with you and Raoul. It is no comfort to me to find myself fought over like a possession,” she said. “But, I thank you for not hurting him further. I know well that you could have done, with such provocation.”
Erik bowed slightly, his face in shadow.
“And...” Christine continued, pacing to focus her thoughts. She was glad that she could not read his expression, for meeting his gaze would just make the words she had been practising all the harder to say. “Equally, I cannot allow him to harm you. It has taken me a long time to admit to myself, but I need you, my maestro. I know now that am not fit to sit in a gilded cage, singing only when permitted, like a nightingale kept for a lady’s amusement. It is not enough for me. My head was filled with dreams, but they were dreams I didn’t and still probably don’t fully understand. I thought that I wanted safety and comfort, but I was wrong; there was always something missing, as though a little part of me had died. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t find it, and then at last I realised what it was.” She stopped and turned to face him once more, to find him still standing by the ledge, silently regarding her. “Christine needs her Erik. Does Erik need Christine?”
He said nothing, and her heart hammered so loudly that she was sure he must be able to hear it. Was this part of her punishment for forsaking him, to remain in a state of anguished anticipation? She half expected him to leave her there, waiting, and vanish below, never to give her an answer.
At length, he did speak, and his voice was low and thick. “Erik has always needed Christine.”
Relief flooded through her, and she thought that she might collapse as her legs wobbled. She reached out for support but could find none; in a moment there was a strong hand under her elbow, keeping her from falling. Glancing up, she found that his masked face was mere inches from hers, those intense mismatched eyes clear despite the darkness. Once, even earlier today, she would have pulled away in fear and confusion, but not now. Something had changed in both of them, back there in the graveyard. Christine realised that she had grown up, and Erik? Perhaps he had done the same. There was a long moment during which neither dared to move, and then, to her disappointment, he was moving away, fingers deftly working at the ties of his cloak. Before she could speak he was transferring the heavy fabric from his shoulders to hers, pulling the collar up around her throat.
“You’re shivering,” he explained, anticipating her question. “We must not neglect your voice; you will need to be at your best to sing Aminta.”
“Erik, I’m not going to sing Aminta,” Christine said. “I can’t; I’ve refused to have anything to do with it.”
Shock and hurt flared in his eyes. “Not sing...” His hands flew from her and he took three stumbling steps back as though she had punched him in the stomach. He stood there, hunched, his face turned away, and said, “I know... I know that I cannot force you. I have no right to deny you a choice; I see that now. But, Christine... it was your voice in my head as I wrote that music. You consumed me, inspired me, drove me onwards. I have thought of nothing these last, long months but seeing you upon that stage, finally lifting your voice in my song...” His voice cracked slightly. “Please do not deny me that one last comfort.”
“No... Erik, you misunderstand me!” She reached out and caught hold of his hand. He flinched, as though her touch had burned him, but he did not withdraw his fingers. “There is a plot, hatched by Raoul and the managers. They mean to capture you during the performance – the theatre will be full of armed men, ready to shoot you down. If I do not sing, the opera cannot go ahead!”
Erik shook his head, not looking at her. He was trembling, though whether it was from the cold or emotion Christine could not tell. “No, no, no, Christine, you must sing. This will be my only chance to have my work performed, to hear my orchestrations beyond the confines of my own mind. And your voice... Paris must hear your voice once more!”
“Erik.” Christine tightened her hold on his hand desperately, trying to pull him round to face her. “Erik, you must listen to me. If Don Juan opens, they will kill you. They have been pushed too far and they are determined to be rid of the Phantom. You will be shown no mercy!”
“Fitting for a creature who has shown none to others, no doubt.”
She gasped at the words, and that mental image of him crouched in the rafters, watching Buquet fall, sprang to her mind’s eye once more. “Erik,” she said quietly, “Please tell me the truth. Did you kill Joseph Buquet?”
“Not Buquet, no.” He laughed harshly. “Ironically, he was trying to escape me when he fell from the catwalk. He was strangled by my lasso; it caught on the way down and broke his neck more efficiently that I could have done, even with my years of practise.”
Christine felt suddenly cold, despite the heavy cloak around her shoulders. She forced herself not to pull away. “You attacked him.”
“He would have done the same to me, given the chance. My side still bears the scar inflicted by his knife some years ago. I refused to bow to his demands of blackmail and his filthy mouth needed to be shut – sooner or later one of you girls would have been hurt by him.”
“Knife...” She blinked, events fitting into their correct place in her head. Madame Giry’s story, the roughs and the masked man who rescued her... she thought of Buquet’s greedy little eyes and leering grin as he hung around outside the dancers’ dressing room, how he flattered and fawned upon the silliest of the girls... “It was him. He tried to - ”
“Defile Antoinette, yes.” Erik glanced at her in surprise. “She told you?” She could only nod, dumbly, but he did not seem angered by the ballet mistress’s transgression; he spoke of the incident in a matter-of-fact tone. “He was lucky not to join his friends at the bottom of the Seine that night. That was precisely what he had planned for me, until he saw the demon he was facing. Do you still believe I deserve mercy, Christine? I have been the Angel of Death more than once.”
She drew his cloak around her, fingers grasping the thick fabric. It was strange how vulnerable he appeared without it in the half-light. He just stood watching her, his visible features set in resignation as though he was convinced that at any moment she would run from him. “I cannot judge you,” she said. “I know very little of your life but I am aware that it has been a hard, unfair one. You may have done wrong, but in this case at least I believe it was for the right reasons.”
“Ah, Christine.” A smile touched his face as he looked up into the night sky. “So naive still.”
“You will not push me away now, so do not try,” Christine told him, the snap in her voice startling her as much as it did him. “If you stay here, and the performance goes ahead, you will die. Raoul is hell-bent on his plan and Andre and Firmin are encouraging him; he will not listen to me. The only way for you to be safe is to leave Paris, go far away from here.”
“Madame Giry has already made such a suggestion, and my answer is the same as I gave to her: no. I will not be run out of my opera house like a rat in a sewer, and in any case I cannot leave until I have seen the culmination of my life’s work.”
She almost stamped her foot in frustration. Why could he not accept what she was telling him? “Erik, they mean to use that work against you. Don Juan is to be the end of the Opera Ghost, once and for all.”
“Even so, I will not go.” Erik’s smile became sad, and he lifted the hand she did not hold, brushing his fingers within a hair’s breadth of her cheek, to tuck a wayward curl beneath her hood. “For the Phantom to disappear and you to announce your withdrawal will make them suspicious; they might get the idea into their heads to take the theatre apart in search of me. Everything must be exactly as I have commanded, and they must believe that they have your support. They already suspect you because of your involvement with me, and I will not have you put in danger on my account.”
“If I sing...” Christine looked up, meeting his gaze. “Will you promise me that you will remain hidden? There must be no appearances like those of Il Muto or the ball. Stay away from the catwalks and from Box Five; they must be disappointed in their attempt to catch you.”
He nodded. “And then, after the performance, I will consider the fate of Monsieur OG. You have my word.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2424
Rating: G
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: Christine and her Angel have some matters to discuss.
Author's Note: The title comes from Enya's track of the same name, from her album And Winter Came
DREAMS ARE MORE PRECIOUS
The snow had almost stopped, but it was still bitingly cold on the roof.
Christine stood hugging herself tightly beneath her cloak and remembering the almost balmy weather that night in June. Freezing snowflakes crackled beneath her feet as she turned, glancing up at the huge statue of Apollo looming above her and wondering where Erik had been hiding while she made her frightened, foolish appeal to Raoul. He knew so well how to blend completely with the shadows, concealing himself in their embrace; even had she been looking she knew that she would never have found him.
In the distance, first one clock chimed the hour, then another and another until every church and public building had taken up the refrain. There was movement somewhere beyond Apollo; though she saw nothing, she knew he was there. His presence was almost a living thing, reaching out to touch her.
“Angel or father, friend or Phantom... who is it there staring?” she called softly, adding when he did not reply, “Does that gaze I feel upon me belong to my Angel of Music or the Opera Ghost?”
A long moment passed before his voice floated towards her on the icy breeze. “Are they not one and the same?”
“Not to me. It is my friend I wish to see, the friend who listened to my hopes and fears, who promised to protect me and sang me to sleep when my grief became too much to bear. I hope that friend is still there, somewhere; I wish so much to speak with him once more.”
“He is here.” The light from the surrounding buildings and the streetlamps below them revealed his silhouette against the clearing sky. “But - forgive me - has not Little Lotte forsaken her angel?”
Christine felt herself colour slightly at the reminder of that particular conversation. She could still see the hurt and anger in his eyes when she spoke of the end of the story. “I am no longer Little Lotte. Sometimes I wonder whether I ever was.”
“You wish to give up your dreams?” Erik had moved a little closer, and she could see him more clearly. Though he was wrapped in his cloak, his hat tilted over his face at the familiar angle that would have looked rakish had she not known what it was designed to hide, he seemed smaller somehow, less intimidating. He still towered over her, but she did not feel that instinctive need to back away. The air about him did not crackle with its usual danger and she relaxed a fraction – the Phantom was absent.
“Some would say that it was time I put away childish things,” she replied.
“There is nothing wrong in dreaming, Christine. Let no one tell you otherwise.” He sounded so incredibly fierce, his wonderful voice quivering with emotion. Somehow, he had come up beside her without her noticing, his tread as silent as a cat, and now stood looking over the rooftops beyond them, towards the Palais-Royal and Notre Dame. She was presented with his good side, and felt a pang of regret as she was given a glimpse of what he could have been, had he not suffered from the cruelty of nature’s touch. “When you have nothing else to live for, when hope is almost completely exhausted, dreaming can keep you alive.”
“But surely it is possible to dream too much? Eventually we all have to live in the real world.”
Erik’s lip curled slightly, and his tone was contemptous. “There is little in the real world which appeals, I find.”
A question suddenly sprang onto her tongue, one she had never even considered asking before, and would probably not have dared. “Is that how it began, then, the legend of the Phantom? Was it your own escape from reality?”
He was silent for some time, and Christine found herself holding her breath. Had she angered him? No... There was no stiffening of his spine, no raising of his head in that regal, assured fashion. Instead, much to her surprise, he leaned forwards, resting his hands on the ledge in front of them, his long fingers whiter than ever in the moonlight. His cufflinks and the ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand gleamed like miniature stars. “Perhaps...” he said quietly. “I had never really considered it that way, but yes... perhaps it was. More than just a mask behind which to hide.” A sigh escaped him. “Why did you ask me here, Christine? This place holds no fond memories for me.”
“I could think of nowhere else that we would not be overheard.” She winced inwardly at her tactlessness. A gust of cold air stirred their cloaks and she moved away from the edge of the roof, turning her chilled face from the wind’s bite.
“After our earlier encounter I had not thought that you would wish to see me. You made your feelings perfectly clear, did you not?”
“I was angry, angry with you and Raoul. It is no comfort to me to find myself fought over like a possession,” she said. “But, I thank you for not hurting him further. I know well that you could have done, with such provocation.”
Erik bowed slightly, his face in shadow.
“And...” Christine continued, pacing to focus her thoughts. She was glad that she could not read his expression, for meeting his gaze would just make the words she had been practising all the harder to say. “Equally, I cannot allow him to harm you. It has taken me a long time to admit to myself, but I need you, my maestro. I know now that am not fit to sit in a gilded cage, singing only when permitted, like a nightingale kept for a lady’s amusement. It is not enough for me. My head was filled with dreams, but they were dreams I didn’t and still probably don’t fully understand. I thought that I wanted safety and comfort, but I was wrong; there was always something missing, as though a little part of me had died. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t find it, and then at last I realised what it was.” She stopped and turned to face him once more, to find him still standing by the ledge, silently regarding her. “Christine needs her Erik. Does Erik need Christine?”
He said nothing, and her heart hammered so loudly that she was sure he must be able to hear it. Was this part of her punishment for forsaking him, to remain in a state of anguished anticipation? She half expected him to leave her there, waiting, and vanish below, never to give her an answer.
At length, he did speak, and his voice was low and thick. “Erik has always needed Christine.”
Relief flooded through her, and she thought that she might collapse as her legs wobbled. She reached out for support but could find none; in a moment there was a strong hand under her elbow, keeping her from falling. Glancing up, she found that his masked face was mere inches from hers, those intense mismatched eyes clear despite the darkness. Once, even earlier today, she would have pulled away in fear and confusion, but not now. Something had changed in both of them, back there in the graveyard. Christine realised that she had grown up, and Erik? Perhaps he had done the same. There was a long moment during which neither dared to move, and then, to her disappointment, he was moving away, fingers deftly working at the ties of his cloak. Before she could speak he was transferring the heavy fabric from his shoulders to hers, pulling the collar up around her throat.
“You’re shivering,” he explained, anticipating her question. “We must not neglect your voice; you will need to be at your best to sing Aminta.”
“Erik, I’m not going to sing Aminta,” Christine said. “I can’t; I’ve refused to have anything to do with it.”
Shock and hurt flared in his eyes. “Not sing...” His hands flew from her and he took three stumbling steps back as though she had punched him in the stomach. He stood there, hunched, his face turned away, and said, “I know... I know that I cannot force you. I have no right to deny you a choice; I see that now. But, Christine... it was your voice in my head as I wrote that music. You consumed me, inspired me, drove me onwards. I have thought of nothing these last, long months but seeing you upon that stage, finally lifting your voice in my song...” His voice cracked slightly. “Please do not deny me that one last comfort.”
“No... Erik, you misunderstand me!” She reached out and caught hold of his hand. He flinched, as though her touch had burned him, but he did not withdraw his fingers. “There is a plot, hatched by Raoul and the managers. They mean to capture you during the performance – the theatre will be full of armed men, ready to shoot you down. If I do not sing, the opera cannot go ahead!”
Erik shook his head, not looking at her. He was trembling, though whether it was from the cold or emotion Christine could not tell. “No, no, no, Christine, you must sing. This will be my only chance to have my work performed, to hear my orchestrations beyond the confines of my own mind. And your voice... Paris must hear your voice once more!”
“Erik.” Christine tightened her hold on his hand desperately, trying to pull him round to face her. “Erik, you must listen to me. If Don Juan opens, they will kill you. They have been pushed too far and they are determined to be rid of the Phantom. You will be shown no mercy!”
“Fitting for a creature who has shown none to others, no doubt.”
She gasped at the words, and that mental image of him crouched in the rafters, watching Buquet fall, sprang to her mind’s eye once more. “Erik,” she said quietly, “Please tell me the truth. Did you kill Joseph Buquet?”
“Not Buquet, no.” He laughed harshly. “Ironically, he was trying to escape me when he fell from the catwalk. He was strangled by my lasso; it caught on the way down and broke his neck more efficiently that I could have done, even with my years of practise.”
Christine felt suddenly cold, despite the heavy cloak around her shoulders. She forced herself not to pull away. “You attacked him.”
“He would have done the same to me, given the chance. My side still bears the scar inflicted by his knife some years ago. I refused to bow to his demands of blackmail and his filthy mouth needed to be shut – sooner or later one of you girls would have been hurt by him.”
“Knife...” She blinked, events fitting into their correct place in her head. Madame Giry’s story, the roughs and the masked man who rescued her... she thought of Buquet’s greedy little eyes and leering grin as he hung around outside the dancers’ dressing room, how he flattered and fawned upon the silliest of the girls... “It was him. He tried to - ”
“Defile Antoinette, yes.” Erik glanced at her in surprise. “She told you?” She could only nod, dumbly, but he did not seem angered by the ballet mistress’s transgression; he spoke of the incident in a matter-of-fact tone. “He was lucky not to join his friends at the bottom of the Seine that night. That was precisely what he had planned for me, until he saw the demon he was facing. Do you still believe I deserve mercy, Christine? I have been the Angel of Death more than once.”
She drew his cloak around her, fingers grasping the thick fabric. It was strange how vulnerable he appeared without it in the half-light. He just stood watching her, his visible features set in resignation as though he was convinced that at any moment she would run from him. “I cannot judge you,” she said. “I know very little of your life but I am aware that it has been a hard, unfair one. You may have done wrong, but in this case at least I believe it was for the right reasons.”
“Ah, Christine.” A smile touched his face as he looked up into the night sky. “So naive still.”
“You will not push me away now, so do not try,” Christine told him, the snap in her voice startling her as much as it did him. “If you stay here, and the performance goes ahead, you will die. Raoul is hell-bent on his plan and Andre and Firmin are encouraging him; he will not listen to me. The only way for you to be safe is to leave Paris, go far away from here.”
“Madame Giry has already made such a suggestion, and my answer is the same as I gave to her: no. I will not be run out of my opera house like a rat in a sewer, and in any case I cannot leave until I have seen the culmination of my life’s work.”
She almost stamped her foot in frustration. Why could he not accept what she was telling him? “Erik, they mean to use that work against you. Don Juan is to be the end of the Opera Ghost, once and for all.”
“Even so, I will not go.” Erik’s smile became sad, and he lifted the hand she did not hold, brushing his fingers within a hair’s breadth of her cheek, to tuck a wayward curl beneath her hood. “For the Phantom to disappear and you to announce your withdrawal will make them suspicious; they might get the idea into their heads to take the theatre apart in search of me. Everything must be exactly as I have commanded, and they must believe that they have your support. They already suspect you because of your involvement with me, and I will not have you put in danger on my account.”
“If I sing...” Christine looked up, meeting his gaze. “Will you promise me that you will remain hidden? There must be no appearances like those of Il Muto or the ball. Stay away from the catwalks and from Box Five; they must be disappointed in their attempt to catch you.”
He nodded. “And then, after the performance, I will consider the fate of Monsieur OG. You have my word.”