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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 17/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1636
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, 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: The roof of the Opera House...
WHISPERS IN THE DARK
“Christine, we can’t stay up here, we have to go back! They will be looking for you!”
Erik slid into the shadows around the great statue of Apollo as two figures came hurrying onto the roof, the first running as though she could escape what had happened down below if she only moved fast enough. His heart clenched to see her so, her arms hugging her slender body beneath the green cloak, her beautiful face white and pinched. She was barely paying attention to the cries of the vicomte as he followed her, caught up in her own world of pain. Oh, Christine...! He wanted nothing more than to throw himself at her feet, beg her forgiveness for frightening her so. For a moment he was on the verge of showing himself, and to hell with de Chagny, just to tell her the truth, that everything he did was ultimately for her, that she had nothing to fear from him.
“I won’t go back there,” Christine said, startling him. “If I go back, who is to say that he won’t kill me too? I’ve seen him, I know him; if he murders Joseph Buquet because the man told those stories about him, what chance is there for me?”
Christine, Christine, no... Erik found himself reaching out a hand to her as she passed his hiding place, walking dangerously close to the edge of the leads. How could she draw such terrible conclusions? The thought of her broken body on that stage, her neck at a strange angle and her sightless eyes staring up at him, his own angel of music silenced forever... the image made him feel physically sick. He opened his mouth to speak, to deny this hideous idea, but the vicomte was ahead of him.
“Christine, stop this madness. You are safe; this is no more than a nightmare. There is no Phantom!”
She rounded on him, curls flying. “You think that I am making this up, Raoul? That I am allowing myself to be ruled by nothing more than a bad dream?” she demanded shrilly. “I have been down there, to the cellars, where he exists in a terrible unending night. He is a man, Raoul, a living, breathing man just like you. But his face... his face...” She became quite still, and Erik held his breath. Her eyes were haunted as she spoke again. “Oh, horror, horror... how can anyone bear such a curse? I have seen nothing like it before, so distorted, deformed... it was hardly a face at all.”
The force of her words hit Erik like a blow to the stomach. He hunched over involuntarily against the pain. How could she describe him so after all that they had shared? He had allowed himself to think that they were becoming closer, moving beyond that dreadful misunderstanding over his mask, that she was beginning to see the man behind it at last, to accept him for himself. Had it all been a lie, to punish him for his own deception? Did she really still see him as no more than a disfigured beast?
“You are overwrought,” Raoul said, and she shook her head. “Anyone would be after what just happened. But nothing can harm you; the Phantom is no more than a monster conjured by the dark.”
“No, he is much, much more than that. Phantom of the Opera, Angel of Music... he freed my voice, taught me to soar. I have never heard melodies in the same way as when I am with him; I almost feel that I am the music, that I have wings and can fly to Heaven on its back. He showed me how to feel, how to live again. And I have wronged him.” Christine’s gaze moved unconsciously to the very spot in which Erik stood, shrouded in the shadows. “I can see the adoration in his eyes when he looks at me; they plead for understanding, for the love of another, so desperately. And yet... within him there is such darkness... how can someone capable of so much beauty have such ugliness in their soul? He is a murderer, and who is to say that he would not kill a thousand men to get what he wanted?”
De Chagny called her name, and the sound drew from Erik a whispered echo which hung in the air around them.
Christine glanced around, her trembling fingers drawing her cloak about her chin. “Did you hear that?”
“Christine.” The vicomte laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Forget these terrified imaginings. Let me take you away from here, somewhere no ghosts and monsters can touch us. There will be no accidents, no demands, just you and I, together.”
She looked at him sadly. “Oh, Raoul. If only that were true.”
“It is true. I will look after you; keep you safe from all of this insanity. Whatever is scaring you, making you talk so wildly, we will leave behind. Once we are away from the Opera, you will be free.”
Christine’s eyes searched his face, raising her hand to brush away a lock of fair hair from his brow. “Freedom is all I want. It feels as though I have never been truly free.”
Taking her hands in his, de Chagny drew her away from the edge of the roof and away from Erik, who, even though he knew he should leave them and stop torturing himself, could not move. For a moment his hopes had been raised when she spoke so vividly and with such feeling about their shared muse, but within a breath she brought the fragile edifice crashing down once more. How could he have believed that she might care for him? Foolish Erik to have forgotten his place in the world!
“I will give you that freedom, Christine,” the vicomte was saying now. “No more darkness, I promise. Just come with me.”
She gazed at him wonderingly. “Raoul, do you mean - ”
He dropped to one knee before her. “Yes. Christine, I love you. Will you let me take you away from all the horror and the hurt?”
A moan escaped Erik’s lips, but if either of them heard it they gave no sign for they were too wrapped up in one another. Before his anguished eyes they embraced, Christine’s happiness fairly shining from her face as Raoul gathered her into his arms and twirled her about the roof as though they were dancing to a tune only heard by lovers. His heart felt as though it might burst from his chest to shatter there and then on the floor. Unable to stand the sickly sight any longer, he turned away, covering his ears to shut out their exclamations of devotion.
When he could bear to look once more they were heading for the door to return to the theatre. Andre and Firmin would do anything to avoid having to issue a refund to the patrons and had no doubt concocted some story between them to explain Buquet’s death. The show would go on, and for that they would need Christine. In mere moments she had recovered her poise, pushing her fright away as she denied her teacher, the man who had laboured so long to make her what she was and without whom she would not be descending to play the Prima Donna. It was all forgotten with a kiss from a golden-haired boy.
“Wait for me outside the stage door,” she was saying to the vicomte. “I will join you immediately after we take our bows.”
He laid a kiss on the dainty hand he held, and smiled at her. “And I shall whisk you away.”
“Into the light. Oh, Raoul, I long to feel the sun on my face again...”
Their voices faded as they descended the stairs. Only when he was sure they had gone did Erik dare to stumble out from behind the statue, to fall to his knees on the cold stone. He did not feel the impact, anger and misery in equal parts coursing through him. In all his years, through all the trials and uncertainties he had faced, hounded out of places and treated like a pariah because of his appearance, nothing had ever hurt like this. Even seeing his mother laughing and petting other women’s children while he watched from afar, abandoned and neglected, could not cause the same gut-wrenching agony which now held him in its grip.
She was going away. His Christine was leaving him. After all that he had done, all that he had given to her, she was running, escaping... escaping from him! He was an Angel of Music no longer, nothing more now than a demon, a devil from whom she could be rescued by her handsome prince on a white horse. He heard her damning words over and over in the silence that surrounded him:
I have seen nothing like it before, so distorted, deformed... it was hardly a face at all.
He covered that tormented face with his hands, unable to control the sobs which shook his body. “Christine... oh, Christine..!” It was a wail of despair, and he no longer cared if he were heard. Tonight he wanted to share his pain with the world; it was too great for him to bear alone.
Throwing his head back, the tears streaming down his face, he screamed, her name becoming an inhuman howl, spiralling up into the clear night sky towards the stars which mocked him with their sparkling brightness. His hands clenched into fists. They would pay for this, all of them. How dare they defy him! Oh, how they would pay...
“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1636
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, 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: The roof of the Opera House...
WHISPERS IN THE DARK
“Christine, we can’t stay up here, we have to go back! They will be looking for you!”
Erik slid into the shadows around the great statue of Apollo as two figures came hurrying onto the roof, the first running as though she could escape what had happened down below if she only moved fast enough. His heart clenched to see her so, her arms hugging her slender body beneath the green cloak, her beautiful face white and pinched. She was barely paying attention to the cries of the vicomte as he followed her, caught up in her own world of pain. Oh, Christine...! He wanted nothing more than to throw himself at her feet, beg her forgiveness for frightening her so. For a moment he was on the verge of showing himself, and to hell with de Chagny, just to tell her the truth, that everything he did was ultimately for her, that she had nothing to fear from him.
“I won’t go back there,” Christine said, startling him. “If I go back, who is to say that he won’t kill me too? I’ve seen him, I know him; if he murders Joseph Buquet because the man told those stories about him, what chance is there for me?”
Christine, Christine, no... Erik found himself reaching out a hand to her as she passed his hiding place, walking dangerously close to the edge of the leads. How could she draw such terrible conclusions? The thought of her broken body on that stage, her neck at a strange angle and her sightless eyes staring up at him, his own angel of music silenced forever... the image made him feel physically sick. He opened his mouth to speak, to deny this hideous idea, but the vicomte was ahead of him.
“Christine, stop this madness. You are safe; this is no more than a nightmare. There is no Phantom!”
She rounded on him, curls flying. “You think that I am making this up, Raoul? That I am allowing myself to be ruled by nothing more than a bad dream?” she demanded shrilly. “I have been down there, to the cellars, where he exists in a terrible unending night. He is a man, Raoul, a living, breathing man just like you. But his face... his face...” She became quite still, and Erik held his breath. Her eyes were haunted as she spoke again. “Oh, horror, horror... how can anyone bear such a curse? I have seen nothing like it before, so distorted, deformed... it was hardly a face at all.”
The force of her words hit Erik like a blow to the stomach. He hunched over involuntarily against the pain. How could she describe him so after all that they had shared? He had allowed himself to think that they were becoming closer, moving beyond that dreadful misunderstanding over his mask, that she was beginning to see the man behind it at last, to accept him for himself. Had it all been a lie, to punish him for his own deception? Did she really still see him as no more than a disfigured beast?
“You are overwrought,” Raoul said, and she shook her head. “Anyone would be after what just happened. But nothing can harm you; the Phantom is no more than a monster conjured by the dark.”
“No, he is much, much more than that. Phantom of the Opera, Angel of Music... he freed my voice, taught me to soar. I have never heard melodies in the same way as when I am with him; I almost feel that I am the music, that I have wings and can fly to Heaven on its back. He showed me how to feel, how to live again. And I have wronged him.” Christine’s gaze moved unconsciously to the very spot in which Erik stood, shrouded in the shadows. “I can see the adoration in his eyes when he looks at me; they plead for understanding, for the love of another, so desperately. And yet... within him there is such darkness... how can someone capable of so much beauty have such ugliness in their soul? He is a murderer, and who is to say that he would not kill a thousand men to get what he wanted?”
De Chagny called her name, and the sound drew from Erik a whispered echo which hung in the air around them.
Christine glanced around, her trembling fingers drawing her cloak about her chin. “Did you hear that?”
“Christine.” The vicomte laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Forget these terrified imaginings. Let me take you away from here, somewhere no ghosts and monsters can touch us. There will be no accidents, no demands, just you and I, together.”
She looked at him sadly. “Oh, Raoul. If only that were true.”
“It is true. I will look after you; keep you safe from all of this insanity. Whatever is scaring you, making you talk so wildly, we will leave behind. Once we are away from the Opera, you will be free.”
Christine’s eyes searched his face, raising her hand to brush away a lock of fair hair from his brow. “Freedom is all I want. It feels as though I have never been truly free.”
Taking her hands in his, de Chagny drew her away from the edge of the roof and away from Erik, who, even though he knew he should leave them and stop torturing himself, could not move. For a moment his hopes had been raised when she spoke so vividly and with such feeling about their shared muse, but within a breath she brought the fragile edifice crashing down once more. How could he have believed that she might care for him? Foolish Erik to have forgotten his place in the world!
“I will give you that freedom, Christine,” the vicomte was saying now. “No more darkness, I promise. Just come with me.”
She gazed at him wonderingly. “Raoul, do you mean - ”
He dropped to one knee before her. “Yes. Christine, I love you. Will you let me take you away from all the horror and the hurt?”
A moan escaped Erik’s lips, but if either of them heard it they gave no sign for they were too wrapped up in one another. Before his anguished eyes they embraced, Christine’s happiness fairly shining from her face as Raoul gathered her into his arms and twirled her about the roof as though they were dancing to a tune only heard by lovers. His heart felt as though it might burst from his chest to shatter there and then on the floor. Unable to stand the sickly sight any longer, he turned away, covering his ears to shut out their exclamations of devotion.
When he could bear to look once more they were heading for the door to return to the theatre. Andre and Firmin would do anything to avoid having to issue a refund to the patrons and had no doubt concocted some story between them to explain Buquet’s death. The show would go on, and for that they would need Christine. In mere moments she had recovered her poise, pushing her fright away as she denied her teacher, the man who had laboured so long to make her what she was and without whom she would not be descending to play the Prima Donna. It was all forgotten with a kiss from a golden-haired boy.
“Wait for me outside the stage door,” she was saying to the vicomte. “I will join you immediately after we take our bows.”
He laid a kiss on the dainty hand he held, and smiled at her. “And I shall whisk you away.”
“Into the light. Oh, Raoul, I long to feel the sun on my face again...”
Their voices faded as they descended the stairs. Only when he was sure they had gone did Erik dare to stumble out from behind the statue, to fall to his knees on the cold stone. He did not feel the impact, anger and misery in equal parts coursing through him. In all his years, through all the trials and uncertainties he had faced, hounded out of places and treated like a pariah because of his appearance, nothing had ever hurt like this. Even seeing his mother laughing and petting other women’s children while he watched from afar, abandoned and neglected, could not cause the same gut-wrenching agony which now held him in its grip.
She was going away. His Christine was leaving him. After all that he had done, all that he had given to her, she was running, escaping... escaping from him! He was an Angel of Music no longer, nothing more now than a demon, a devil from whom she could be rescued by her handsome prince on a white horse. He heard her damning words over and over in the silence that surrounded him:
I have seen nothing like it before, so distorted, deformed... it was hardly a face at all.
He covered that tormented face with his hands, unable to control the sobs which shook his body. “Christine... oh, Christine..!” It was a wail of despair, and he no longer cared if he were heard. Tonight he wanted to share his pain with the world; it was too great for him to bear alone.
Throwing his head back, the tears streaming down his face, he screamed, her name becoming an inhuman howl, spiralling up into the clear night sky towards the stars which mocked him with their sparkling brightness. His hands clenched into fists. They would pay for this, all of them. How dare they defy him! Oh, how they would pay...
“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!”
