charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2011-10-16 01:47 pm
charleygirl) wrote2011-10-16 01:47 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Phantom of the Opera | Beyond the Green Baize Door 9/?
Title: Beyond the Green Baize Door 9/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1785
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Christine visits her father's grave. Follows Chapter 5: Nowhere to Turn.
Author's Notes: I must admit to having a bit of a problem with Wandering Child/Bravo Monsieur, mainly because what works on stage (the Phantom shooting fireballs at Raoul for example) just looks ridiculous in prose. Equally, I dislike the swordfight in the movie because (like everything else about that film) it's completely ludicrous. I do, however, like the snowy cemetery setting, and that's what I've used here. Also, I doubt that Daddy Daae was rich enough to have such a huge mausoleum as those he's given. The title is from the Enya track of the same name, which can be found on her album Amarantine.
AMID THE FALLING SNOW
The frozen path crunched beneath Christine’s feet as she made her way from the gates. After so long she could walk it in her sleep; she knew exactly how many steps it took, which monuments and stones she would pass on the way. In those first empty, lonely weeks and months, she had measured the passing of time by the dropping of the earth that covered the new graves, by the wilting of their floral tributes.
Five years. It scarcely seemed that long – if she closed her eyes she could almost believe that it had been only yesterday when it was she and her father against the world. Back then he had appeared to be invincible, his star rising with every performance in every new town, their life a whirl about which they had barely even dared to dream all that time ago in Sweden. He had talked of nurturing Christine’s talent, sending her to the Conservatoire for professional training; he talked of much, the vast majority of those words remaining as just that, his plans cut short by the cancer that had been, unknown to either of them, destroying him inside. His passing had left an ache deep in her heart, the ache of a loss which she knew, though time may dull it, would never leave her.
The grave itself was simple; though Gustave Daae was much respected as a musician an ability to handle money had not been one of his talents. Money slipped through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to stop it; there was always a deserving cause or a friend in need to whom he would give without a second thought. Even amid gala performances and standing ovations, they had never been rich, and the plain marble stone was all Christine could afford once the debts were paid. As the mason charged by the letter the inscription it bore stated merely his name and the dates of his birth and death. There was no room for even a line in tribute from his daughter.
Kneeling on the cold ground, she spread out the roses she had brought as always and sighed. “Oh, Papa, what am I going to do? Everything is so confused; I think I may be going mad. Nothing makes sense any more!”
Of course there was no reply; there never was. Christine was not so naive as to expect a stone to answer her plea, but she always felt closer to her father when she visited his grave. With all physical sense of him gone but the photograph she cherished and set upon her dressing table, this place was her only connection with the most important person in her life. Here, she could almost imagine his gentle presence beside her.
“How I wish you were here with me,” she whispered, bowing her head. “How can you have been gone so long?”
A shadow fell across her. “You appear in need of some guidance, child,” a silken voice murmured in her ear.
Startled, Christine looked up and stifled a gasp at the sight of this intruder. Never before had she seen him beyond the confines of the Opera House, but astonishingly Erik stepped out from behind the gravestone, his black cloak and wide-brimmed hat stark against the snow. A shiver ran through her, one that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.
“What... what are you doing here?” she demanded tremulously. She had almost imagined that he could not leave the theatre, trapped there like the Minotaur in its labyrinth, but here he was, out in the real world.
He reached out a gloved hand, lightly tracing the words carved into the marble before him. “Your father was a most talented musician.”
“Forgive me if I find the idea that you have come to pay your respects somewhat hard to believe, monsieur.”
“Christine, Christine.” Erik shook his head, his tone lilting. “You are troubled. Tell your Angel what is wrong.”
“No.” Fiercely, she shut her eyes, clenching her fists and willing herself to resist the beauty of his voice. If she listened, he would ensnare her once again, and she would be lost. “Stop this. I cannot think when you are near me. My mind is not my own!”
Silence greeted her words. She could hear a bell tolling somewhere in the distance, the wheels of a coach outside rattling past. When eventually she risked peering at him through her lashes the unmasked side of his face for once betrayed his feelings – he looked shocked.
“You... you came here to escape me. Christine, do I frighten you so much?” he asked, sounding in that moment more like a bewildered little boy than the powerful and controlling Phantom.
Mutely, Christine nodded. Erik’s eyes closed, as if in pain, and he turned away, his cloak swirling about him. In the encroaching twilight, the falling snowflakes glistened amid the jet beads on his shoulders like diamonds. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.
“I would give you the world if you asked, Christine. Why do you not believe that?”
“I don’t want the world from you, Erik. I want to be free, to make my own decisions, to live my life as I wish,” she said honestly.
His head inclined slightly, giving her a view of the cold, implacable frown of his mask. “And there is no place in that life for Erik?”
“I did not say that.” Christine gazed upon the roses spread upon the grave before her. Frost already touched the blooms; they would be dead by morning. “All I ask is the right to choose.”
“And should I choose not to grant you that right?” Erik spun slowly to face her, reaching out a hand. Curling one long finger and then another with languid grace into his palm, he sang in barely more than a breath, “Come to me, Christine. Come to your Angel of Music...”
He knew so well the sensual, hypnotic power of his voice. As always, she was unable to resist. She rose, stepping obediently around the grave to stand before him. A smile touched his bloated lips.
“You need your Angel, Christine. Where would you be without him?”
“Christine!”
A new voice rent the air, raised in desperation. The spell was broken; the Phantom hissed in anger, turning to meet the newcomer, to see who had dared to interrupt. A carriage waited beyond the cemetery gate, and a figure in a greatcoat ran between the monuments, golden hair in disarray, and a pistol in his hand. There was no mistaking his identity, or his intent.
“Raoul!” Christine cried. “Raoul, go back!”
“No, Christine. I don’t know what he’s told you, if he’s mesmerised you or used other trickery, but that thing is not your father!” Raoul stopped ten feet away, levelling his gun. “Let her go, you monster!”
From the corner of her eye, Christine saw Erik stiffen, standing straighter, but to her surprise a slow clapping sound, each impact as loud as a shot, was all that came from him. Looking properly, she realised that he was lazily applauding Raoul’s efforts. “Bravo, monsieur,” he drawled. “I did not think you possessed such spirit!”
The pistol wavered, but only slightly. “I mean it. Release her, or I will shoot.”
Erik took a step away from Christine, but remained within touching distance. He spread his hands wide. “You would shoot an unarmed man? Where is your code of honour?”
Raoul’s lip curled in disdain. “It counts only when my opponent is an honourable man, monsieur. You are no such thing.”
The flawless side of the Phantom’s face crumpled in fury. “You will regret your words, Monsieur le Vicomte.” With movements too fast for Christine to follow, there was suddenly a long, thin, cord in his hands. It twisted, and snapped, and as he threw out an arm a stone vase on a neighbouring grave shattered into a thousand fragments. Ducking the shards, Raoul spun, his finger on the trigger, but he was not quick enough. This time a kneeling angel was decapitated and Christine shrieked in terror as the dislodged head flew closed to Raoul’s own. A horrible chuckle, reminding her of the night the chandelier fell, danced from Erik’s throat, and a moment later the cord was around Raoul’s wrist and he was jerking it downwards to point the barrel of the gun harmlessly at the floor. The vicomte’s mouth contorted in a grimace of pain; Christine started towards him, but a mere gesture from Erik somehow held her back.
“You said that you were unarmed,” Raoul gasped.
Erik’s mouth twitched. “I am a man without honour, monsieur. You should not have believed me.” He moved closer, tightening his grip on the rope. Raoul bit back a cry, his fingers spasming. The pistol fell into the snow. “Foolish boy. Tell me why I should let you live.” With a flick of his wrist, he pulled sharply on the cord; this time Raoul howled.
“You evil abomination!” he shouted, scrabbling for the gun with his left hand. “Why do you not return to the hell that spawned you and leave us be?”
“Stop it!” Christine screamed, unable to watch any more. “Stop it, both of you!”
Both men froze, and then, almost as one, slowly turned to look at her. Despite the pain, Raoul’s mouth hung open in shock; Erik’s visible features were neutral but for a slightly raised eyebrow. Christine dug her nails into her palms, steeling herself for the coming confrontation, and took a deep breath.
“Leave him, Erik,” she said, amazing herself with the calmness of her voice. “Let him go, or, so help me God, there will be never be a place for you in my life.”
His mismatched gaze met hers, and she forced herself to hold it, her chin lifted defiantly. I mean it, she told him wordlessly.
For several long moments, it was stalemate between them before, whirling about, he began to gather in the rope. A deft twist of the fingers released Raoul, causing the vicomte to overbalance with the force of the movement. Almost by magic, the gun on the frozen ground was in Erik’s hand, and had vanished into his pocket before Christine could blink. She went to Raoul’s side, helping him to his feet; Erik’s eyes were hot on her back, and she could feel the rage boiling within him. Though he was already moving away, returning to the shadows from which he had come; his voice was there with them, falling through the air like the snow:
“This is not over. Prepare yourself, for the battle between us just became a war.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1785
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Christine visits her father's grave. Follows Chapter 5: Nowhere to Turn.
Author's Notes: I must admit to having a bit of a problem with Wandering Child/Bravo Monsieur, mainly because what works on stage (the Phantom shooting fireballs at Raoul for example) just looks ridiculous in prose. Equally, I dislike the swordfight in the movie because (like everything else about that film) it's completely ludicrous. I do, however, like the snowy cemetery setting, and that's what I've used here. Also, I doubt that Daddy Daae was rich enough to have such a huge mausoleum as those he's given. The title is from the Enya track of the same name, which can be found on her album Amarantine.
AMID THE FALLING SNOW
The frozen path crunched beneath Christine’s feet as she made her way from the gates. After so long she could walk it in her sleep; she knew exactly how many steps it took, which monuments and stones she would pass on the way. In those first empty, lonely weeks and months, she had measured the passing of time by the dropping of the earth that covered the new graves, by the wilting of their floral tributes.
Five years. It scarcely seemed that long – if she closed her eyes she could almost believe that it had been only yesterday when it was she and her father against the world. Back then he had appeared to be invincible, his star rising with every performance in every new town, their life a whirl about which they had barely even dared to dream all that time ago in Sweden. He had talked of nurturing Christine’s talent, sending her to the Conservatoire for professional training; he talked of much, the vast majority of those words remaining as just that, his plans cut short by the cancer that had been, unknown to either of them, destroying him inside. His passing had left an ache deep in her heart, the ache of a loss which she knew, though time may dull it, would never leave her.
The grave itself was simple; though Gustave Daae was much respected as a musician an ability to handle money had not been one of his talents. Money slipped through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to stop it; there was always a deserving cause or a friend in need to whom he would give without a second thought. Even amid gala performances and standing ovations, they had never been rich, and the plain marble stone was all Christine could afford once the debts were paid. As the mason charged by the letter the inscription it bore stated merely his name and the dates of his birth and death. There was no room for even a line in tribute from his daughter.
Kneeling on the cold ground, she spread out the roses she had brought as always and sighed. “Oh, Papa, what am I going to do? Everything is so confused; I think I may be going mad. Nothing makes sense any more!”
Of course there was no reply; there never was. Christine was not so naive as to expect a stone to answer her plea, but she always felt closer to her father when she visited his grave. With all physical sense of him gone but the photograph she cherished and set upon her dressing table, this place was her only connection with the most important person in her life. Here, she could almost imagine his gentle presence beside her.
“How I wish you were here with me,” she whispered, bowing her head. “How can you have been gone so long?”
A shadow fell across her. “You appear in need of some guidance, child,” a silken voice murmured in her ear.
Startled, Christine looked up and stifled a gasp at the sight of this intruder. Never before had she seen him beyond the confines of the Opera House, but astonishingly Erik stepped out from behind the gravestone, his black cloak and wide-brimmed hat stark against the snow. A shiver ran through her, one that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.
“What... what are you doing here?” she demanded tremulously. She had almost imagined that he could not leave the theatre, trapped there like the Minotaur in its labyrinth, but here he was, out in the real world.
He reached out a gloved hand, lightly tracing the words carved into the marble before him. “Your father was a most talented musician.”
“Forgive me if I find the idea that you have come to pay your respects somewhat hard to believe, monsieur.”
“Christine, Christine.” Erik shook his head, his tone lilting. “You are troubled. Tell your Angel what is wrong.”
“No.” Fiercely, she shut her eyes, clenching her fists and willing herself to resist the beauty of his voice. If she listened, he would ensnare her once again, and she would be lost. “Stop this. I cannot think when you are near me. My mind is not my own!”
Silence greeted her words. She could hear a bell tolling somewhere in the distance, the wheels of a coach outside rattling past. When eventually she risked peering at him through her lashes the unmasked side of his face for once betrayed his feelings – he looked shocked.
“You... you came here to escape me. Christine, do I frighten you so much?” he asked, sounding in that moment more like a bewildered little boy than the powerful and controlling Phantom.
Mutely, Christine nodded. Erik’s eyes closed, as if in pain, and he turned away, his cloak swirling about him. In the encroaching twilight, the falling snowflakes glistened amid the jet beads on his shoulders like diamonds. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.
“I would give you the world if you asked, Christine. Why do you not believe that?”
“I don’t want the world from you, Erik. I want to be free, to make my own decisions, to live my life as I wish,” she said honestly.
His head inclined slightly, giving her a view of the cold, implacable frown of his mask. “And there is no place in that life for Erik?”
“I did not say that.” Christine gazed upon the roses spread upon the grave before her. Frost already touched the blooms; they would be dead by morning. “All I ask is the right to choose.”
“And should I choose not to grant you that right?” Erik spun slowly to face her, reaching out a hand. Curling one long finger and then another with languid grace into his palm, he sang in barely more than a breath, “Come to me, Christine. Come to your Angel of Music...”
He knew so well the sensual, hypnotic power of his voice. As always, she was unable to resist. She rose, stepping obediently around the grave to stand before him. A smile touched his bloated lips.
“You need your Angel, Christine. Where would you be without him?”
“Christine!”
A new voice rent the air, raised in desperation. The spell was broken; the Phantom hissed in anger, turning to meet the newcomer, to see who had dared to interrupt. A carriage waited beyond the cemetery gate, and a figure in a greatcoat ran between the monuments, golden hair in disarray, and a pistol in his hand. There was no mistaking his identity, or his intent.
“Raoul!” Christine cried. “Raoul, go back!”
“No, Christine. I don’t know what he’s told you, if he’s mesmerised you or used other trickery, but that thing is not your father!” Raoul stopped ten feet away, levelling his gun. “Let her go, you monster!”
From the corner of her eye, Christine saw Erik stiffen, standing straighter, but to her surprise a slow clapping sound, each impact as loud as a shot, was all that came from him. Looking properly, she realised that he was lazily applauding Raoul’s efforts. “Bravo, monsieur,” he drawled. “I did not think you possessed such spirit!”
The pistol wavered, but only slightly. “I mean it. Release her, or I will shoot.”
Erik took a step away from Christine, but remained within touching distance. He spread his hands wide. “You would shoot an unarmed man? Where is your code of honour?”
Raoul’s lip curled in disdain. “It counts only when my opponent is an honourable man, monsieur. You are no such thing.”
The flawless side of the Phantom’s face crumpled in fury. “You will regret your words, Monsieur le Vicomte.” With movements too fast for Christine to follow, there was suddenly a long, thin, cord in his hands. It twisted, and snapped, and as he threw out an arm a stone vase on a neighbouring grave shattered into a thousand fragments. Ducking the shards, Raoul spun, his finger on the trigger, but he was not quick enough. This time a kneeling angel was decapitated and Christine shrieked in terror as the dislodged head flew closed to Raoul’s own. A horrible chuckle, reminding her of the night the chandelier fell, danced from Erik’s throat, and a moment later the cord was around Raoul’s wrist and he was jerking it downwards to point the barrel of the gun harmlessly at the floor. The vicomte’s mouth contorted in a grimace of pain; Christine started towards him, but a mere gesture from Erik somehow held her back.
“You said that you were unarmed,” Raoul gasped.
Erik’s mouth twitched. “I am a man without honour, monsieur. You should not have believed me.” He moved closer, tightening his grip on the rope. Raoul bit back a cry, his fingers spasming. The pistol fell into the snow. “Foolish boy. Tell me why I should let you live.” With a flick of his wrist, he pulled sharply on the cord; this time Raoul howled.
“You evil abomination!” he shouted, scrabbling for the gun with his left hand. “Why do you not return to the hell that spawned you and leave us be?”
“Stop it!” Christine screamed, unable to watch any more. “Stop it, both of you!”
Both men froze, and then, almost as one, slowly turned to look at her. Despite the pain, Raoul’s mouth hung open in shock; Erik’s visible features were neutral but for a slightly raised eyebrow. Christine dug her nails into her palms, steeling herself for the coming confrontation, and took a deep breath.
“Leave him, Erik,” she said, amazing herself with the calmness of her voice. “Let him go, or, so help me God, there will be never be a place for you in my life.”
His mismatched gaze met hers, and she forced herself to hold it, her chin lifted defiantly. I mean it, she told him wordlessly.
For several long moments, it was stalemate between them before, whirling about, he began to gather in the rope. A deft twist of the fingers released Raoul, causing the vicomte to overbalance with the force of the movement. Almost by magic, the gun on the frozen ground was in Erik’s hand, and had vanished into his pocket before Christine could blink. She went to Raoul’s side, helping him to his feet; Erik’s eyes were hot on her back, and she could feel the rage boiling within him. Though he was already moving away, returning to the shadows from which he had come; his voice was there with them, falling through the air like the snow:
“This is not over. Prepare yourself, for the battle between us just became a war.”