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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 41/44
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2120
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 has made her decision. Is she strong enough to deal with it?
STRONG ENOUGH
Christine hated the small hours of the morning.
It was the time when the rest of the world seemed to disappear, lost in dreams; a strange, unearthly time caught between the darkness and the light during which hopes and fears ran riot, chasing themselves across half-conscious minds. As she sat beside the bed in the subterranean house she could not help but feel as though she had been transported back five years, to the moments when her father took his last breaths. She had been alone then, too, but for their elderly landlady and the brief visit by the physician, who had shaken his head sadly and patted her hand as he left. Though there was obviously nothing he could do to save Gustave Daae, he had not neglected to send her his bill. It arrived on the morning of the funeral, and Christine left in on the sideboard until she was forced to leave the spartan lodgings, as a reminder of the heartlessness of her fellow creatures.
Thankfully, Doctor Lambert seemed more hopeful. “If he goes on well through the next few hours, and no infection sets in, he should make a full recovery,” he said, adding, “However, I would strongly advocate moving him from this environment as soon as possible; cold and damp are beneficial to no one, especially a man with a serious wound.” Now he was gone, escorted home by Raoul, and Christine found herself floundering without a source of reassurance. Though the doctor appeared initially reluctant, from the moment he had seen the gravity of the situation he treated the Phantom no differently from anyone else he might find in his care; he asked few questions and made no comment on his patient’s appearance. Christine was grateful to him for his discretion, and wondered exactly what Madame Giry had told him.
The ballet mistress was snoring in the armchair. Christine wished that she was awake so that she would have someone with whom to discuss her doubts and fears, for Meg was sleeping too, curled up beneath the pale blue covers in the boat-shaped bed where Christine herself had awoken on that fateful morning after the gala performance of Hannibal. She could not deny either of them their rest; without their support the events of the last few hours would have culminated in a very different outcome indeed. But still... it was hard not to feel as though she were the only person in the world, like Sleeping Beauty’s prince as he approached the enchanted castle only to find himself surrounded by those slumbering like the dead. Despite what passed between them she had had to stop herself racing through the tunnels after Raoul, to desperately beg him for comfort. She needed someone to tell her that everything would be all right; she was frightened that she would not have the strength to face and accept her feelings, that she was still too much the child to cope with the complicated and unpredictable man to whom she found herself inexorably drawn.
Sighing, she turned back to her Angel. Anyone looking at him now would think that Erik was sleeping peacefully. He lay still, his left arm in its sling resting on his chest and his face turned into the pillow; even unconscious he instinctively hid his ravaged features, she thought sadly. His anger had been such that Doctor Lambert was forced to sedate him to prevent him injuring himself further; Christine heard him fight as the drug was administered and her heart clenched in sympathy even though she knew that it was for his own safety. He needed to rest, to heal, however it was obtained. She had never seen him sleep until tonight; when relaxed he looked much younger, the lines of care and suffering around his left eye and his mouth smoothed away. For what seemed like hours she had been content to just watch him breathe, the steady rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic. She was afraid to look away, in case it stopped.
A log toppled over in the grate, sending sparks shooting up the chimney, startling her and causing Madame Giry to snuffle and stir in her chair. The spell broken, Christine got to her feet and tucked a blanket over the older woman; the ballet mistress did not wake. The clock on the mantelpiece told her that it was nearly five o’clock; in an hour or two the dawn would begin to break, the sun spreading its weak winter rays over the city. It was Sunday morning and the bells would start to chime, calling the faithful to mass. The Opera would be closed, its cast and crew taking their well-deserved break; she could not help but wonder what they would be saying about the previous night’s performance and the debacle that followed it. Would the newspapers be full of the fall of Don Juan and the appearance of the Phantom?
It was too quiet in the darkened bedroom. Feeling suddenly restless she took up a candle and tiptoed out into the hallway, peering around the door of the room Erik had prepared for her to find Meg little more than a heap of tumbled golden curls on the pillow. She lingered for a moment, remembering the duck-egg blue of the walls, their white frieze giving the impression of a room crafted from Wedgewood china; the delicate furniture and the wardrobe full of beautiful, elegantly tailored gowns. Passing the dressing table, her reflection flitting across the mirror like a ghost, she ran a finger over the sliver-backed hairbrushes, tracing the engraved C for Christine. He had forgotten nothing, neglected no detail in his quest to please her, and that morning, scared and confused, she had thrown it all back in his face. He had presumed too much, and she did not know how to respond. Reality crushed the fragile fantasy that was their friendship in an instant.
Christine barely noticed that her feet had taken her to the library until she found herself face to face with the monkey music box. It sat there, impassive as ever, watching her with its sightless eyes as it waited for a command to play. On an impulse she lifted it, carrying it back to the bedroom and clearing a space on the nightstand in which to set it down. It had been beside her bed that morning; her sleep had been so deep that Erik’s frenzied composing had not caused her to stir, but she awoke to the sound of the monkey’s haunting little tune. Wanting to hear something, anything, to break the heavy silence in the air, she wound the handle of the barrel organ and the music box began to play.
“Masquerade... Paper faces on parade... Hide your face so the world will never find you...”
There was no strength behind the words, which only heightened their ethereal quality and made it almost seem that the monkey had gained a voice. Christine glanced back to the bed to find that Erik’s eyes were open and he was looking at her in wonder. Automatically, she reached out to take hold of his hand, no longer minding the icy chill of his skin.
“I... hope this is real,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Does this seem real?” she asked, gently squeezing his fingers as she brought them to her lips.
“You... you’re still here.” His gaze, still unfocussed from the effects of the drug, settled on her face. “Why did you not leave?”
“I couldn’t - ” Christine was cut off as he began to cough, and she jumped up, lifting his head and helping him to drink some water. By the time she laid him gently back on the pillows he was frowning, the shadows deepening across his distorted face.
“I don’t understand,” he said, “You can feel no obligation to me; I wanted to release you, so that you could be happy with your boy.”
“My engagement to Raoul is at an end.” His eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly added before he could speak, “No matter how many times you send me away, Erik, I will always come back.”
He was silent for some time, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep again. At last he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him, “I think I truly must be dreaming.”
“Shh.” Christine smoothed his hair; it was a shade lighter than hers, receding slightly and thinning at the temple close to his deformity. “You need to rest.”
“No. Not yet.” Erik shook his head, the frown still creasing his forehead. “Why would you... why would you want to give him up? All your heart’s desires... you could have fulfilled your... your...”
“All my fantasies? I suppose so. Raoul would have climbed into the heavens and brought me the moon and stars if I asked, but there would always have been something lacking.”
He was confused, and she couldn’t blame him. The laudanum was still clouding his mind. He opened his mouth but could not find the breath to speak.
“Raoul has no music in his soul, Erik,” she said gently. “It is deep in mine, entangled in the core of my being just as it is in yours. I tried to turn my back upon it, but like a thirsty man in the desert I just came to crave it even more. What would you do if you had to live without music?”
“Music has been the only... constant in my life,” he replied immediately in a faltering voice. “For... for many years it was the only... the only thing that kept me sane. I would... I would die without it.”
“If that is so, how could you send me away, condemn me to such a life?” Christine asked.
“Oh, Christine, Christine...” His eyelids were drooping, his hand growing limp in hers, and she knew that he would not be awake much longer. “I am... I am not a good man. I have done many things... many dreadful things that I regret. You... I have not treated you fairly, my dear. I tried to win you the only way I knew how... I deceived you, terrified you, preyed upon your fears. Those were the acts... of a despicable man, Christine, of a monster. I see that now. I cannot... I cannot force you to share my fate... a life of... of unending darkness.”
“When you released me, you returned my right to choose for myself.” She tightened her grip upon his fingers. “You are changing, Erik, the fact that you regret what you have done shows me that. You do not have to be that man any longer.”
“You really... really believe that such a thing is...is possible?” His mismatched eyes shone with hope beneath their heavy lids. She nodded, and he glanced towards Madame Giry; the ballet mistress slumbered on, undisturbed by their conversation. “That would make you... only the second person ever to have seen... seen some worth in this loathsome carcass.”
“Please don’t speak of yourself that way. Not any more.”
He smiled slightly. “Hope for the hopeless...?”
“No,” she told him softly. “You could never be that.”
“I had a dream...” he murmured, his attention wandering. “I think it was a... dream. What else could it... be?”
“What did you dream, my Angel?” Christine asked.
“I dreamt... I dreamt that you kissed me. It was... such a lovely dream. It made... Erik very happy...”
“That was no dream,” she told him, bending her head close to his. “Would you like me to do it again?”
Erik gazed up at her in sleepy wonderment. Without waiting for an answer, Christine leaned in and touched his twisted lips with her own. He was unresponsive for a moment, as if he was unsure what to do; his hand tensed, clenching around her fingers, and then his mouth moved against hers and he was suddenly kissing her back. It was hesitant, unpractised, and unbearably sweet. When she pulled away his eyes were shining with tears.
“Oh, Christine,” he breathed, raising the hand she still held to her face. His thumb stroked her cheek. “You... you have no idea how long I have wanted to do... to do that.”
“You may do it as many times as you wish,” Christine said, knowing that the smile on his face was mirrored on her own.
His were eyes closing, the sedative pulling him under once more. She nearly missed his next words, they were so faint. “....I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered as he fell still, his breathing calm and even. “Perhaps I always did, I just didn’t want to admit it.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2120
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 has made her decision. Is she strong enough to deal with it?
STRONG ENOUGH
Christine hated the small hours of the morning.
It was the time when the rest of the world seemed to disappear, lost in dreams; a strange, unearthly time caught between the darkness and the light during which hopes and fears ran riot, chasing themselves across half-conscious minds. As she sat beside the bed in the subterranean house she could not help but feel as though she had been transported back five years, to the moments when her father took his last breaths. She had been alone then, too, but for their elderly landlady and the brief visit by the physician, who had shaken his head sadly and patted her hand as he left. Though there was obviously nothing he could do to save Gustave Daae, he had not neglected to send her his bill. It arrived on the morning of the funeral, and Christine left in on the sideboard until she was forced to leave the spartan lodgings, as a reminder of the heartlessness of her fellow creatures.
Thankfully, Doctor Lambert seemed more hopeful. “If he goes on well through the next few hours, and no infection sets in, he should make a full recovery,” he said, adding, “However, I would strongly advocate moving him from this environment as soon as possible; cold and damp are beneficial to no one, especially a man with a serious wound.” Now he was gone, escorted home by Raoul, and Christine found herself floundering without a source of reassurance. Though the doctor appeared initially reluctant, from the moment he had seen the gravity of the situation he treated the Phantom no differently from anyone else he might find in his care; he asked few questions and made no comment on his patient’s appearance. Christine was grateful to him for his discretion, and wondered exactly what Madame Giry had told him.
The ballet mistress was snoring in the armchair. Christine wished that she was awake so that she would have someone with whom to discuss her doubts and fears, for Meg was sleeping too, curled up beneath the pale blue covers in the boat-shaped bed where Christine herself had awoken on that fateful morning after the gala performance of Hannibal. She could not deny either of them their rest; without their support the events of the last few hours would have culminated in a very different outcome indeed. But still... it was hard not to feel as though she were the only person in the world, like Sleeping Beauty’s prince as he approached the enchanted castle only to find himself surrounded by those slumbering like the dead. Despite what passed between them she had had to stop herself racing through the tunnels after Raoul, to desperately beg him for comfort. She needed someone to tell her that everything would be all right; she was frightened that she would not have the strength to face and accept her feelings, that she was still too much the child to cope with the complicated and unpredictable man to whom she found herself inexorably drawn.
Sighing, she turned back to her Angel. Anyone looking at him now would think that Erik was sleeping peacefully. He lay still, his left arm in its sling resting on his chest and his face turned into the pillow; even unconscious he instinctively hid his ravaged features, she thought sadly. His anger had been such that Doctor Lambert was forced to sedate him to prevent him injuring himself further; Christine heard him fight as the drug was administered and her heart clenched in sympathy even though she knew that it was for his own safety. He needed to rest, to heal, however it was obtained. She had never seen him sleep until tonight; when relaxed he looked much younger, the lines of care and suffering around his left eye and his mouth smoothed away. For what seemed like hours she had been content to just watch him breathe, the steady rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic. She was afraid to look away, in case it stopped.
A log toppled over in the grate, sending sparks shooting up the chimney, startling her and causing Madame Giry to snuffle and stir in her chair. The spell broken, Christine got to her feet and tucked a blanket over the older woman; the ballet mistress did not wake. The clock on the mantelpiece told her that it was nearly five o’clock; in an hour or two the dawn would begin to break, the sun spreading its weak winter rays over the city. It was Sunday morning and the bells would start to chime, calling the faithful to mass. The Opera would be closed, its cast and crew taking their well-deserved break; she could not help but wonder what they would be saying about the previous night’s performance and the debacle that followed it. Would the newspapers be full of the fall of Don Juan and the appearance of the Phantom?
It was too quiet in the darkened bedroom. Feeling suddenly restless she took up a candle and tiptoed out into the hallway, peering around the door of the room Erik had prepared for her to find Meg little more than a heap of tumbled golden curls on the pillow. She lingered for a moment, remembering the duck-egg blue of the walls, their white frieze giving the impression of a room crafted from Wedgewood china; the delicate furniture and the wardrobe full of beautiful, elegantly tailored gowns. Passing the dressing table, her reflection flitting across the mirror like a ghost, she ran a finger over the sliver-backed hairbrushes, tracing the engraved C for Christine. He had forgotten nothing, neglected no detail in his quest to please her, and that morning, scared and confused, she had thrown it all back in his face. He had presumed too much, and she did not know how to respond. Reality crushed the fragile fantasy that was their friendship in an instant.
Christine barely noticed that her feet had taken her to the library until she found herself face to face with the monkey music box. It sat there, impassive as ever, watching her with its sightless eyes as it waited for a command to play. On an impulse she lifted it, carrying it back to the bedroom and clearing a space on the nightstand in which to set it down. It had been beside her bed that morning; her sleep had been so deep that Erik’s frenzied composing had not caused her to stir, but she awoke to the sound of the monkey’s haunting little tune. Wanting to hear something, anything, to break the heavy silence in the air, she wound the handle of the barrel organ and the music box began to play.
“Masquerade... Paper faces on parade... Hide your face so the world will never find you...”
There was no strength behind the words, which only heightened their ethereal quality and made it almost seem that the monkey had gained a voice. Christine glanced back to the bed to find that Erik’s eyes were open and he was looking at her in wonder. Automatically, she reached out to take hold of his hand, no longer minding the icy chill of his skin.
“I... hope this is real,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Does this seem real?” she asked, gently squeezing his fingers as she brought them to her lips.
“You... you’re still here.” His gaze, still unfocussed from the effects of the drug, settled on her face. “Why did you not leave?”
“I couldn’t - ” Christine was cut off as he began to cough, and she jumped up, lifting his head and helping him to drink some water. By the time she laid him gently back on the pillows he was frowning, the shadows deepening across his distorted face.
“I don’t understand,” he said, “You can feel no obligation to me; I wanted to release you, so that you could be happy with your boy.”
“My engagement to Raoul is at an end.” His eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly added before he could speak, “No matter how many times you send me away, Erik, I will always come back.”
He was silent for some time, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep again. At last he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him, “I think I truly must be dreaming.”
“Shh.” Christine smoothed his hair; it was a shade lighter than hers, receding slightly and thinning at the temple close to his deformity. “You need to rest.”
“No. Not yet.” Erik shook his head, the frown still creasing his forehead. “Why would you... why would you want to give him up? All your heart’s desires... you could have fulfilled your... your...”
“All my fantasies? I suppose so. Raoul would have climbed into the heavens and brought me the moon and stars if I asked, but there would always have been something lacking.”
He was confused, and she couldn’t blame him. The laudanum was still clouding his mind. He opened his mouth but could not find the breath to speak.
“Raoul has no music in his soul, Erik,” she said gently. “It is deep in mine, entangled in the core of my being just as it is in yours. I tried to turn my back upon it, but like a thirsty man in the desert I just came to crave it even more. What would you do if you had to live without music?”
“Music has been the only... constant in my life,” he replied immediately in a faltering voice. “For... for many years it was the only... the only thing that kept me sane. I would... I would die without it.”
“If that is so, how could you send me away, condemn me to such a life?” Christine asked.
“Oh, Christine, Christine...” His eyelids were drooping, his hand growing limp in hers, and she knew that he would not be awake much longer. “I am... I am not a good man. I have done many things... many dreadful things that I regret. You... I have not treated you fairly, my dear. I tried to win you the only way I knew how... I deceived you, terrified you, preyed upon your fears. Those were the acts... of a despicable man, Christine, of a monster. I see that now. I cannot... I cannot force you to share my fate... a life of... of unending darkness.”
“When you released me, you returned my right to choose for myself.” She tightened her grip upon his fingers. “You are changing, Erik, the fact that you regret what you have done shows me that. You do not have to be that man any longer.”
“You really... really believe that such a thing is...is possible?” His mismatched eyes shone with hope beneath their heavy lids. She nodded, and he glanced towards Madame Giry; the ballet mistress slumbered on, undisturbed by their conversation. “That would make you... only the second person ever to have seen... seen some worth in this loathsome carcass.”
“Please don’t speak of yourself that way. Not any more.”
He smiled slightly. “Hope for the hopeless...?”
“No,” she told him softly. “You could never be that.”
“I had a dream...” he murmured, his attention wandering. “I think it was a... dream. What else could it... be?”
“What did you dream, my Angel?” Christine asked.
“I dreamt... I dreamt that you kissed me. It was... such a lovely dream. It made... Erik very happy...”
“That was no dream,” she told him, bending her head close to his. “Would you like me to do it again?”
Erik gazed up at her in sleepy wonderment. Without waiting for an answer, Christine leaned in and touched his twisted lips with her own. He was unresponsive for a moment, as if he was unsure what to do; his hand tensed, clenching around her fingers, and then his mouth moved against hers and he was suddenly kissing her back. It was hesitant, unpractised, and unbearably sweet. When she pulled away his eyes were shining with tears.
“Oh, Christine,” he breathed, raising the hand she still held to her face. His thumb stroked her cheek. “You... you have no idea how long I have wanted to do... to do that.”
“You may do it as many times as you wish,” Christine said, knowing that the smile on his face was mirrored on her own.
His were eyes closing, the sedative pulling him under once more. She nearly missed his next words, they were so faint. “....I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered as he fell still, his breathing calm and even. “Perhaps I always did, I just didn’t want to admit it.”
