charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2012-05-10 04:48 pm
charleygirl) wrote2012-05-10 04:48 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Phantom of the Opera | Beyond the Green Baize Door 39/44
Title: Beyond the Green Baize Door 39/44
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2532
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny, 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: The Phantom is back in the game.
COMING OUT OF THE DARK
There was a haze of pain, blackness edged with red, surrounding him.
Noises, voices, came and went, fading in and out as he slipped between consciousness and oblivion; it was impossible to distinguish between those which were real and the spectres conjured from the depths of his hellish imagination. More than once Erik could clearly see his mother bending over him, her golden hair shining like a halo, an irony which would have made him laugh if only he could. Her piercing eyes and pursed mouth as she regarded him spoke more eloquently of her disappointment and disgust than any words could have done; he was a child again, desperate to be loved and accepted, always failing to move her stony heart no matter how hard he tried.
“Look at you!” she cried, “I should have known that you would be reduced to this, hiding in the dark like the animal you are! How could I ever be proud of such a miserable cur? You are a changeling, I know it now. You may as well return to the nothingness from which you came, for you are no son of mine!”
With a moan, a pitiful sound, Erik squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again Christine was there. Impossible! Had he not told Antoinette to send her away? What was she doing sitting at his side, gazing at him with such compassion in her beautiful eyes? He tried to say her name, tried to tell her to go, but the words were garbled, indistinguishable even to him, his voice a pathetic parody of itself. To his amazement, she kissed his hand, and then she faded from view. Only her voice remained, echoing in the void.
“I’m here, Angel.”
Erik wanted to reach for her, to call her back, but he was too tired. He could not recall feeling so utterly drained in years; the pain seemed almost inconsequential in comparison with such bone-deep fatigue, so great that he could barely even manage to lift his eyelids. He slipped away once more, into the safe cocoon of the darkness which welcomed him with open arms.
He had no idea how much time had passed, whether it was minutes, hours or days. A blink seemed to last an eternity. He was cold, so terribly cold, and then the pain returned, waking him abruptly and bringing with it voices and faces, both strange and familiar, which became clearer with every passing moment. Antoinette was talking to him, her tone soothing, but she was not alone; his unfocussed gaze found the features of a man he had never seen before, an intruder in his kingdom. Anger rising, Erik tried to reach for this trespasser, but his hand, the hand which had wound the Punjab lasso almost lovingly around so many necks, would not obey him. The interloper went free.
Light fingers stroked his hair, a sensation entirely new to him. He leaned into the touch, relishing the contact, and then stiffened as he felt those same fingers move to his face, to his mask. Cool air touched his deformed cheek and he knew, despite the cotton wool which seemed to be filling his brain, that he had been betrayed. Fury briefly eclipsed the pain, and he hissed an accusation. How could she do such a thing to him, after all that they had been through? A sob rose up in his throat, and he stared at her, feeling tears of rage and disappointment prickle at his eyelids. He begged her not to, his own voice sounding as though it came from very far away, as if it belonged to someone else, begged her to leave him his dignity at least.
“...please, no... not that... anything but... that...”
A sickly smell enveloped him, its sweetness stirring terrible memories of a noisy tavern and iron bars. He was addressed by someone else, an authoritative baritone he did not recognise, before darkness swept over him and he knew nothing more.
________________________________________
“You have been very lucky, Monsieur. An inch or two higher, and the bullet would have shattered your collarbone; a little lower and you would have a punctured lung.”
Bewildered, Erik opened his eyes to see the strange man standing over him. He noticed with a peculiar detachment that the fellow wore spectacles and a pointed beard, as well as a tired smile; blood stained the rolled sleeves of his crumpled shirt. Opening his mouth to speak, he was frustrated when little more than a croak emerged; strong hands lifted his head and brought a glass of water to his parched mouth. He drank gratefully, his eyelids drooping once more. By the time his head touched the pillow again he had forgotten what he wanted to say, his senses reclaimed by Morpheus.
________________________________________
Time moved on.
Gradually, the comforting nothingness in which he had been content to float began to recede, drawing him back towards the waking world. Pain reasserted itself, though it was no longer the sharp, wrenching agony he had endured before; a dull, hot throbbing centred itself in his arm and shoulder, the tongues of fire licking at his flesh as he tried to move finally pulling him into full consciousness.
Erik held completely still, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. He could handle pain; throughout his life he had become well acquainted with its indiscriminate touch. Slowly it began to subside to more manageable levels, his vision cleared and he was able to see his surroundings clearly for the first time in what seemed like years.
Vaguely he remembered returning to his home, and he was indeed lying in his own bed, five storeys below the Opera. The room around him was a mess, the night table covered with all manner of medical debris: bottles and bandages, water glasses and rolls of lint and gauze all jostled for space. The armchair had been dragged from the fireplace to the side of the bed, and though it was empty at the moment a crumpled blanket told of recent occupancy. He explored his injury with heavy, unsteady fingers, finding it expertly bound, his left arm immobilised in a sling. Someone had dressed him in his warmest nightshirt; his ruined suit lay neatly folded on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, shoes standing beside it. Over the chair in the corner lay the Don Juan cloak, discarded. The sight of it brought the events of the evening crashing back: his impulsive decision to save the performance, singing with Christine on the stage and feeling the connection between them once more, the potency of their duet. His good hand stole towards his face, fingers tracing his mangled lips, as he recalled her kiss...
He had not been expecting that. When he walked onto the set he had no idea what would happen, how she would react to his presence. She made him promise to stay away, to deny his enemies the opportunity they desired, for which they had planned. They were counting upon his attendance, and he had given her his word that he would prove them wrong. Vanity and desperation drove him to take Piangi’s place, and she had scolded him for it. Her initial shock and anger only increased the emotions which were already running high within them both. Elation filled him as he realised that his voice could still have the same power over her, that she would always respond to his call; he had all but forgotten that he had decreed Don Juan should embrace Aminta, so caught up on the moment was he. As he held her hand, feeling her warm, smooth fingers against his, he thought that he would melt with sheer delight; he never wanted to let her go. She met his gaze, a question in her eyes, and he found he had no idea what he should do next. The world beyond the two of them might as well have ceased to exist.
And then... and then... she had touched her perfect, ruby lips to his. Erik had never been kissed before. He had often dreamed of such a thing, but knew that it was an experience he would never share, for no one would kiss a gargoyle. When Christine kissed him he had no idea what to do. He had never been touched in such an intimate fashion, and instead of joy, panic filled him and he tried to pull away; bless her, his angel would not let him, her warm mouth moving against his, her breath coming as fast as his own. She stood on tiptoes, her hands cupping the back of his head, her heaving little bosom pressed against his chest, and he thought he might die there and then on the spot. She pulled away at last and smiled...
He had known immediately that he could never condemn her to his hell, to a half life buried underground. A delicate flower would never withstand such a fate, deprived of sunlight. Though it might tear him apart, he knew that he had to let her go. Heedless of the audience, of the shadowy presence which ringed the auditorium, just waiting to catch him, he prepared himself to tell her, to open the cage door and allow her to fly. But before he could speak he felt the hood pulled back, the fabric sliding across his mask and suddenly he was exposed, blinking and startled, in the full glare of the stage lights. There was a shout, a scream, and then chaos. After that he recalled little more than wisps, snatches of sound and colour, everything around him a blur but for that moment of clarity when he pressed the little Japanned box into Antoinette’s hands and told her to send Christine back to the boy. De Chagny could give her the life she deserved, far more than a monster hiding in a cellar could have done.
A single tear trickled down his cheek. She would be far away now, in the arms of her handsome suitor. Never again would she have to think of the lonely, rejected man to whom she had given a fleeting glimpse of happiness. He closed his eyes, the lids burning as more tears welled up despite his attempts to stop them. Raising his right hand to brush them away he froze, feeling the distorted flesh beneath his fingertips. Turning his head with an effort, he spied his mask amongst the litter on the bedside table, and realised that he had not been dreaming when he felt its removal. Anger flared within him once more, displacing sorrow, and he tried to reach for the mask; it lay just out of reach, empty eye taunting him. Without thinking, Erik fought his left arm free of the confining sling, pushing himself up on both elbows.
It was a mistake. Pain lanced through him, and he fell heavily against the pillows with a shout. There was the sound of running feet in the hallway and the door was thrown open, Madame Giry hurrying into the room with others close on her heels. Breathing heavily, his shoulder burning as though he had plunged it into a bucket of hot coals, Erik glared at them all. How dared she take advantage of him in this way? He would never have allowed so many people into his sanctuary, not if they wished to live!
“Why did you not invite the Prime Minister and the Queen of England as well, Madame?” he asked. “Or perhaps put up some posters, advertising trips to the Phantom’s lair? I am sure there would be a queue longer than that for La Belle Hélène!”
Antoinette ignored him, fussing about with pillows and blankets, tutting at the ruined sling. “Really, Erik, you will tear the stitches!” she scolded, as though he were a naughty child. “Lie down, and I will fetch you some morphine for the pain.”
“I want nothing more from you, Madame,” Erik growled, swiftly covering the damaged side of his face with his hand as he recognised the other intruders. Little Giry hovered in the doorway, still in her gypsy costume, and to his horror and astonishment behind her stood the tall, fair-haired figure of the Vicomte de Chagny. At the sight of him Erik wanted nothing more than to sink into the shadows that were his natural home and never emerge. To think that the boy, the perfect, perfect boy, had seen his face! Had he not been humiliated enough? With a strangled cry he reached for his mask again, desperate for the protection it gave. Once more his hand fell short; exhausted he collapsed on his side, burying his deformity in the pillow and trying to stifle the sobs which threatened to unman him.
A small hand rested on his cheek, the thumb gently stroking his jaw. He swallowed, opening one eye a fraction to see a beautiful face close to his, a dark brown gaze regarding him in concern. A familiar fragrance, still strong despite the competing scents of blood and sweat and wood smoke, touched his mockery of a nose.
“Let us help you, my Angel,” she said.
He could not bear it. Jerking his head away from her touch, he turned a furious gaze upon Antoinette as she still stood at the bedside. “Do you now disobey all my orders, Madame?” he demanded, his voice catching in his throat. “I told you to send her away!”
“Erik, no, please -” Christine cried, dropping to her knees. She tried to capture his hand, but he pulled it from her. “Please don’t do this - ”
De Chagny started forwards, crouching beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Christine. You can do nothing more.” He glanced at Erik, challenging him to argue, but the Phantom nodded.
“Take her, Monsieur. Go now, and never return.” Christine looked horrified at his words and Erik had to close his eyes. Her tears would be his undoing. “Take the boat, and promise me that you will tell no one about what you have seen.”
None of them moved. There was a long pause, during which he could clearly hear the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, and then they all began to speak at once.
“Erik, this is foolish!” Antoinette snapped, only to be cut across by her daughter calling Christine’s name. There was a scuffle beside the bed, which Erik could only assume was Raoul trying to pull his fiancée away. He refused to look.
“Erik, you can’t do this, don’t make me leave,” Christine pleaded, “I don’t want to go!”
“Christine, come with me,” the vicomte murmured. “It’s for the best, you’ll see that in time. Please, my darling, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“No, no, I won’t. Raoul, I don’t want to - ”
“Christine - ”
“No! Let me go! Erik - !”
The voices became a cacophony. Erik could take no more. Covering his head with his good arm, pain flaring through the other and his heart feeling as though it would break in two, he roared,
“Go! Go now and leave me!!”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2532
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny, 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: The Phantom is back in the game.
COMING OUT OF THE DARK
There was a haze of pain, blackness edged with red, surrounding him.
Noises, voices, came and went, fading in and out as he slipped between consciousness and oblivion; it was impossible to distinguish between those which were real and the spectres conjured from the depths of his hellish imagination. More than once Erik could clearly see his mother bending over him, her golden hair shining like a halo, an irony which would have made him laugh if only he could. Her piercing eyes and pursed mouth as she regarded him spoke more eloquently of her disappointment and disgust than any words could have done; he was a child again, desperate to be loved and accepted, always failing to move her stony heart no matter how hard he tried.
“Look at you!” she cried, “I should have known that you would be reduced to this, hiding in the dark like the animal you are! How could I ever be proud of such a miserable cur? You are a changeling, I know it now. You may as well return to the nothingness from which you came, for you are no son of mine!”
With a moan, a pitiful sound, Erik squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again Christine was there. Impossible! Had he not told Antoinette to send her away? What was she doing sitting at his side, gazing at him with such compassion in her beautiful eyes? He tried to say her name, tried to tell her to go, but the words were garbled, indistinguishable even to him, his voice a pathetic parody of itself. To his amazement, she kissed his hand, and then she faded from view. Only her voice remained, echoing in the void.
“I’m here, Angel.”
Erik wanted to reach for her, to call her back, but he was too tired. He could not recall feeling so utterly drained in years; the pain seemed almost inconsequential in comparison with such bone-deep fatigue, so great that he could barely even manage to lift his eyelids. He slipped away once more, into the safe cocoon of the darkness which welcomed him with open arms.
He had no idea how much time had passed, whether it was minutes, hours or days. A blink seemed to last an eternity. He was cold, so terribly cold, and then the pain returned, waking him abruptly and bringing with it voices and faces, both strange and familiar, which became clearer with every passing moment. Antoinette was talking to him, her tone soothing, but she was not alone; his unfocussed gaze found the features of a man he had never seen before, an intruder in his kingdom. Anger rising, Erik tried to reach for this trespasser, but his hand, the hand which had wound the Punjab lasso almost lovingly around so many necks, would not obey him. The interloper went free.
Light fingers stroked his hair, a sensation entirely new to him. He leaned into the touch, relishing the contact, and then stiffened as he felt those same fingers move to his face, to his mask. Cool air touched his deformed cheek and he knew, despite the cotton wool which seemed to be filling his brain, that he had been betrayed. Fury briefly eclipsed the pain, and he hissed an accusation. How could she do such a thing to him, after all that they had been through? A sob rose up in his throat, and he stared at her, feeling tears of rage and disappointment prickle at his eyelids. He begged her not to, his own voice sounding as though it came from very far away, as if it belonged to someone else, begged her to leave him his dignity at least.
“...please, no... not that... anything but... that...”
A sickly smell enveloped him, its sweetness stirring terrible memories of a noisy tavern and iron bars. He was addressed by someone else, an authoritative baritone he did not recognise, before darkness swept over him and he knew nothing more.
________________________________________
“You have been very lucky, Monsieur. An inch or two higher, and the bullet would have shattered your collarbone; a little lower and you would have a punctured lung.”
Bewildered, Erik opened his eyes to see the strange man standing over him. He noticed with a peculiar detachment that the fellow wore spectacles and a pointed beard, as well as a tired smile; blood stained the rolled sleeves of his crumpled shirt. Opening his mouth to speak, he was frustrated when little more than a croak emerged; strong hands lifted his head and brought a glass of water to his parched mouth. He drank gratefully, his eyelids drooping once more. By the time his head touched the pillow again he had forgotten what he wanted to say, his senses reclaimed by Morpheus.
________________________________________
Time moved on.
Gradually, the comforting nothingness in which he had been content to float began to recede, drawing him back towards the waking world. Pain reasserted itself, though it was no longer the sharp, wrenching agony he had endured before; a dull, hot throbbing centred itself in his arm and shoulder, the tongues of fire licking at his flesh as he tried to move finally pulling him into full consciousness.
Erik held completely still, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. He could handle pain; throughout his life he had become well acquainted with its indiscriminate touch. Slowly it began to subside to more manageable levels, his vision cleared and he was able to see his surroundings clearly for the first time in what seemed like years.
Vaguely he remembered returning to his home, and he was indeed lying in his own bed, five storeys below the Opera. The room around him was a mess, the night table covered with all manner of medical debris: bottles and bandages, water glasses and rolls of lint and gauze all jostled for space. The armchair had been dragged from the fireplace to the side of the bed, and though it was empty at the moment a crumpled blanket told of recent occupancy. He explored his injury with heavy, unsteady fingers, finding it expertly bound, his left arm immobilised in a sling. Someone had dressed him in his warmest nightshirt; his ruined suit lay neatly folded on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, shoes standing beside it. Over the chair in the corner lay the Don Juan cloak, discarded. The sight of it brought the events of the evening crashing back: his impulsive decision to save the performance, singing with Christine on the stage and feeling the connection between them once more, the potency of their duet. His good hand stole towards his face, fingers tracing his mangled lips, as he recalled her kiss...
He had not been expecting that. When he walked onto the set he had no idea what would happen, how she would react to his presence. She made him promise to stay away, to deny his enemies the opportunity they desired, for which they had planned. They were counting upon his attendance, and he had given her his word that he would prove them wrong. Vanity and desperation drove him to take Piangi’s place, and she had scolded him for it. Her initial shock and anger only increased the emotions which were already running high within them both. Elation filled him as he realised that his voice could still have the same power over her, that she would always respond to his call; he had all but forgotten that he had decreed Don Juan should embrace Aminta, so caught up on the moment was he. As he held her hand, feeling her warm, smooth fingers against his, he thought that he would melt with sheer delight; he never wanted to let her go. She met his gaze, a question in her eyes, and he found he had no idea what he should do next. The world beyond the two of them might as well have ceased to exist.
And then... and then... she had touched her perfect, ruby lips to his. Erik had never been kissed before. He had often dreamed of such a thing, but knew that it was an experience he would never share, for no one would kiss a gargoyle. When Christine kissed him he had no idea what to do. He had never been touched in such an intimate fashion, and instead of joy, panic filled him and he tried to pull away; bless her, his angel would not let him, her warm mouth moving against his, her breath coming as fast as his own. She stood on tiptoes, her hands cupping the back of his head, her heaving little bosom pressed against his chest, and he thought he might die there and then on the spot. She pulled away at last and smiled...
He had known immediately that he could never condemn her to his hell, to a half life buried underground. A delicate flower would never withstand such a fate, deprived of sunlight. Though it might tear him apart, he knew that he had to let her go. Heedless of the audience, of the shadowy presence which ringed the auditorium, just waiting to catch him, he prepared himself to tell her, to open the cage door and allow her to fly. But before he could speak he felt the hood pulled back, the fabric sliding across his mask and suddenly he was exposed, blinking and startled, in the full glare of the stage lights. There was a shout, a scream, and then chaos. After that he recalled little more than wisps, snatches of sound and colour, everything around him a blur but for that moment of clarity when he pressed the little Japanned box into Antoinette’s hands and told her to send Christine back to the boy. De Chagny could give her the life she deserved, far more than a monster hiding in a cellar could have done.
A single tear trickled down his cheek. She would be far away now, in the arms of her handsome suitor. Never again would she have to think of the lonely, rejected man to whom she had given a fleeting glimpse of happiness. He closed his eyes, the lids burning as more tears welled up despite his attempts to stop them. Raising his right hand to brush them away he froze, feeling the distorted flesh beneath his fingertips. Turning his head with an effort, he spied his mask amongst the litter on the bedside table, and realised that he had not been dreaming when he felt its removal. Anger flared within him once more, displacing sorrow, and he tried to reach for the mask; it lay just out of reach, empty eye taunting him. Without thinking, Erik fought his left arm free of the confining sling, pushing himself up on both elbows.
It was a mistake. Pain lanced through him, and he fell heavily against the pillows with a shout. There was the sound of running feet in the hallway and the door was thrown open, Madame Giry hurrying into the room with others close on her heels. Breathing heavily, his shoulder burning as though he had plunged it into a bucket of hot coals, Erik glared at them all. How dared she take advantage of him in this way? He would never have allowed so many people into his sanctuary, not if they wished to live!
“Why did you not invite the Prime Minister and the Queen of England as well, Madame?” he asked. “Or perhaps put up some posters, advertising trips to the Phantom’s lair? I am sure there would be a queue longer than that for La Belle Hélène!”
Antoinette ignored him, fussing about with pillows and blankets, tutting at the ruined sling. “Really, Erik, you will tear the stitches!” she scolded, as though he were a naughty child. “Lie down, and I will fetch you some morphine for the pain.”
“I want nothing more from you, Madame,” Erik growled, swiftly covering the damaged side of his face with his hand as he recognised the other intruders. Little Giry hovered in the doorway, still in her gypsy costume, and to his horror and astonishment behind her stood the tall, fair-haired figure of the Vicomte de Chagny. At the sight of him Erik wanted nothing more than to sink into the shadows that were his natural home and never emerge. To think that the boy, the perfect, perfect boy, had seen his face! Had he not been humiliated enough? With a strangled cry he reached for his mask again, desperate for the protection it gave. Once more his hand fell short; exhausted he collapsed on his side, burying his deformity in the pillow and trying to stifle the sobs which threatened to unman him.
A small hand rested on his cheek, the thumb gently stroking his jaw. He swallowed, opening one eye a fraction to see a beautiful face close to his, a dark brown gaze regarding him in concern. A familiar fragrance, still strong despite the competing scents of blood and sweat and wood smoke, touched his mockery of a nose.
“Let us help you, my Angel,” she said.
He could not bear it. Jerking his head away from her touch, he turned a furious gaze upon Antoinette as she still stood at the bedside. “Do you now disobey all my orders, Madame?” he demanded, his voice catching in his throat. “I told you to send her away!”
“Erik, no, please -” Christine cried, dropping to her knees. She tried to capture his hand, but he pulled it from her. “Please don’t do this - ”
De Chagny started forwards, crouching beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Christine. You can do nothing more.” He glanced at Erik, challenging him to argue, but the Phantom nodded.
“Take her, Monsieur. Go now, and never return.” Christine looked horrified at his words and Erik had to close his eyes. Her tears would be his undoing. “Take the boat, and promise me that you will tell no one about what you have seen.”
None of them moved. There was a long pause, during which he could clearly hear the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, and then they all began to speak at once.
“Erik, this is foolish!” Antoinette snapped, only to be cut across by her daughter calling Christine’s name. There was a scuffle beside the bed, which Erik could only assume was Raoul trying to pull his fiancée away. He refused to look.
“Erik, you can’t do this, don’t make me leave,” Christine pleaded, “I don’t want to go!”
“Christine, come with me,” the vicomte murmured. “It’s for the best, you’ll see that in time. Please, my darling, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“No, no, I won’t. Raoul, I don’t want to - ”
“Christine - ”
“No! Let me go! Erik - !”
The voices became a cacophony. Erik could take no more. Covering his head with his good arm, pain flaring through the other and his heart feeling as though it would break in two, he roared,
“Go! Go now and leave me!!”