Chapter Text
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XII
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Minutes dragged past while the Phantom paced his lair, his mind wrapped around the night's ghostly events and the bleak future shown to him. He had long ago discarded his soiled clothes, damp with melted snow and freshly dug earth, and had donned a fresh shirt and trousers.
Staring at the myriad images of Christine on his wall, he stood silent as her last words to him reverberated with alarming clarity inside his mind. She had not spoken to the pathetic shadow of himself in the future, but to him alone, as he was now. She had seen him, had known the reason for his presence there...
And she had told him to let her go.
Shutting his eyes, he clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists. He winced as his nails, ragged from digging through snow and earth, buried into torn flesh where the thorns of the rose had pierced him.
The gradual slosh of water alerted him to his assistant's arrival, and he collected his tattered emotions into a semblance of calm. He turned and watched as she maneuvered the boat through the open portcullis to the bank and stepped out.
"You look terrible, Maestro." Tact was not her forte this morning. "Did you not sleep well?"
"I do not wish to discuss my evening's activities with you." His half mask and wig were safely in place, but nothing could hide the dark shadow beneath his exposed red-rimmed eye. Even theatrical pigment had failed where before it had served its purpose as an artifice to conceal. He walked to a nearby table and snatched up a bundle of envelopes. "I need you to deliver these, and do so quickly."
"More notes?"
She made little attempt to disguise the cutting tone of her voice, but he would not relent. Upon his return from the nightmarish world of the future, a world that had been no shadow at all, but as real as the one in which he now stood, he had spent the better half of the morning deciding what must be done.
Into her hand he placed the black-rimmed envelopes sealed with his Red Death stamp of wax, save for one missive that did not bear his threatening mark.
He hesitated. "How is Christine? Is she well?"
Her brow arched in confused surprise at the urgency of his soft-spoken words. "She arrived late to the Christmas party and was tardy to rise due to too much frolicking with my daughter, but she is not ill."
He inhaled deeply and swallowed hard in gratitude, placing the last missive in her hand, one sealed with a few simple drops of red wax that by no design of his own resembled a newly budded rose. Though the realm he had last visited shadowed dire things to come and, he reminded himself, he again inhabited the present, to hear that Christine was alive and well gave him immense relief.
Madame glanced about the cavern chamber before looking at him again. Clearly she had something of import on her mind.
"I would speak with you. About the new opera."
"Very well?"
"I implore you to change your mind and not commence with whatever disturbance you have planned for the opening of Il Muto." When he did not respond, she cleared her throat and smoothed a hand over the back of her head, flipping her long braid in front of her, twin signs of her nervousness. "I spoke with the managers on your behalf. They have agreed to a meeting of truce at a place of your choosing. This would be an excellent opportunity to show them the operas you have written."
"You had no right to speak for me, without my consent."
At his quiet words, she grew more agitated, smoothing her palms down her embroidered black skirt. "I realize I acted without permission, Monsieur, but this unrest you have brought about cannot continue. The opera house is in uproar with your latest round of notes, and Christine, herself, is troubled, anxious about what might occur. A matter, I think, that would give you pause if for no other reason than you desire her best interests."
"I agree. Christine is in place as the understudy?"
Her mouth parted in shock. Taken aback, she stared at him.
"Madame?"
"Oui, I have done as you requested and made the recommendation to the managers. After the fiasco with La Carlotta quitting on the day Hannibal opened, they will support the idea." She shook her head, as though to set matters right in her mind. "You agree? Does this mean you will allow the opera to proceed as planned? I must tell you, I believe it is the only method by which the managers will consider your wishes with regard to Christine and likewise consider any additional requests you may have."
The familiar rage that they should dare rebel against him swiftly rose within, but he fought down the agitation and turned his back on her, striding away as he considered the situation. In a moment, he again faced her.
"I wish for you to make certain Christine is in the main dressing room this evening, but do not tell her I arranged it. Use whatever ploy you must to get her there. She will need fittings for costumes should she be required to fill in for La Carlotta as the Countess. Use that as an excuse to ensure her acquiescence in the matter."
"Monsieur! On Christmas Day?"
For a moment he had forgotten. "She has not made other arrangements?"
"No, Monsieur. She will attend church services later, of course, but no one will desire to work this day. And after such a night of festivities I shudder to think of the outcome should I attempt to elicit the workers' cooperation."
"It is not necessary to enlist the aid of others for one menial task," he shot back in frustration. "Do whatever you must, make up a tale, I do not care what means you use to get her there - only do so."
"Oui, Monsieur." She hesitated, another matter weighing on her mind. "If I may speak?" At his abrupt nod she continued, "You have not yet answered my question, and I would be most grateful if you would appease my curiosity." Her eyes looked troubled. "Is there a reason, to your knowledge, that Christine will find it necessary to replace La Carlotta?"
The Phantom did not answer immediately, thinking of the delightful concoction of harmless herbs used to numb the vocal chords - what he had created with the intent to replace the diva's throat spray once her attendants' attention lay elsewhere. Oh, that would have been a jewel to his crown as the reigning dark menace, to hear her croak! To make the audience suffer and torture them with her intolerable screeches and pulsating wails did not seem the least bit merciful…
"Monsieur?"
He exhaled deeply, blowing out his breath in a reconciled sigh. "Whatever dilemma may befall La Carlotta, should any ill wind blow her way, will not be released by my hand."
She studied him as if she wasn't sure whether or not to believe him. "Then you wish me to tell the managers you are agreeable to meet with them?"
"Yes; the time and place I will later determine. Tonight I have other concerns." She gave a slight nod and moved to leave, but before she could enter the boat, he stopped her. "One last matter to which you must attend." He approached her.
"Oui?"
"The seamstress I asked you to discharge -"
"I have already taken the matter in hand, Monsieur. A most disagreeable woman. I caught her stealing from the bolts of materials to make a coat. For herself, I presume. I discharged her two days ago."
"I see. Very well, then. Send a servant with word that she is to regain her position, with an increase in salary."
"Monsieur?" She miscalculated her step and almost fell into the water. He caught her arm before she could lose all balance, afterward quickly releasing his hold, awkward and unaccustomed to physical contact of any nature. She blinked up at him, her eyes owlish. "You wish me to rehire her? And increase her salary, though I've just told you she has stolen from the Opera House?"
"What is a little material from our vast stores?" He affected a careless shrug with a lift of his hand. "If the meeting with my managers goes as planned, we shall need the service of a talented seamstress to fashion the costumes required for Christine. I have been pleased with the woman's apt needlework. She did a remarkable job on the gown Christine wore for her debut performance. I am convinced this woman will be an asset if given the opportunity, and am certain the managers will agree. I will make up the difference from my own purse should they refuse the increase in her wages."
Madame Giry stood, fixed, gaping at him.
"Is there a problem?"
"I was wondering the same about you. Are you feeling well, Monsieur?"
"Confound it, Madame!" Frustrated that she was making such a titanic commotion out of his clumsy and pathetic attempt at benevolence, he threw his arms outward and paced. "If I wish to hire the entire work force of Paris, what is that to you? Leave me now and see to my orders before I change my mind and decide I no longer need an assistant!"
Without a parting word or hint of emotion on her features, she stepped into the boat with her usual grace. Before she could use the pole to glide out of sight, a modicum of remorse forced the Phantom to speak.
"Madame?"
She froze and looked over her shoulder.
"Pardon my ill temper; I spoke in haste. I wish to thank you for your commitment in your years of service to me. I could not have asked for a more reliable colleague."
He should have spoken sooner. Even from this distance the Phantom noticed how round her eyes went. She leaned on the pole for support, thankfully not falling out of the boat. He would not have wished to change from wet, soiled clothes a second time that morning should he have needed to wade into the cold water to fish her out of it.
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For the remainder of the afternoon, the Phantom busied his hands with activities that did not require a great deal of attention to accomplish. Always, in the back of his mind, the knowledge of what his decision would cost him tore within his heart a slow rift of misery.
Compassion …
Lost to him, but he must extend it so that she would flourish.
With a stick of hard colored clay, he filled in the lines of the dress he had sketched on to the image of Christine, the pale rose hued dress of a Countess, and paused a moment to regard his handiwork. Ironic that one day he should become, by birthright, a true Count when he'd once fought so tenaciously to secure Christine the role of Countess in this new opera - would still fight to further her career, only by a different measure. Oh, that she could become his Countess in reality…
He shut his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw as he curbed a tide of intense emotion.
He would arrange to meet with his managers, as planned, in the shadowed recesses of Box 5, and thereafter make a supreme effort to be cordial and disclose his demands as unassuming requests in return for the termination of discord within the Opera House. But tonight… tonight he must see her.
He sighed, setting down the clay stick, and looked at the face in the drawing. A lovely countenance, but by no means could it compare to its true bearer. The expression in her large, beguiling eyes appeared haunted, sorrowful, and he realized he had sketched her eyes as he had seen them in the present and future shadows when she so loyally defended him, despite that he had so carelessly hurt her.
Mercy …
Desiring no further visitation of his memory to that ordeal in the shadow world, the Phantom swept the paper from the table, where it fluttered to the ground. He stood to his feet and began to pace, once more grappling with the oppressive weight of his wishes as opposed to her vital needs - the scales always refusing to balance in his favor.
The day passed as it always did, as it always would...
At last the time arrived. Grimly pressing his lips together, resolute, he swept his cape around his shoulders and fastened the clasps, then tugged on his black gloves.
Once he traversed the numerous winding corridors and took his place behind the glass that acted as a mirror, he laid his palm against its surface, leaning close. His heart leapt at the sight of her, obviously having just completed whatever fitting or task had been required. She sat at the dressing table, brushing out her long hair. A worker spoke with her, one of the new hairdressers, and Christine smiled at something said, her face rosy and glowing with vitality and beauty.
He expelled a soft breath of relief to see her looking so well, so content. Once the servant left her alone in the room, however, her countenance underwent a dramatic transformation as she looked directly at the mirror behind which he stood. Her every move graceful, she rose from the bench and took measured steps his way, the ruffled edges of her white lace dressing gown sweeping the rug behind her.
"I feel you here with me," she whispered. "Please speak to me. Tell me that I have not displeased you beyond reparation. Please don't remain silent any longer."
Alarm winged through the Phantom when he first thought she could see his face. Yet no flames from the candles lit the walls behind him, so the possibility of her viewing his image, as he had arranged on the night of her debut, was not feasible.
She moved closer, until she stood directly before the mirror, and though he knew she could not see him, he retreated a silent step in alarm.
"Why have you not come before this, Mon Ange?" she asked, her whisper plaintive. She laid her hand upon the glass at shoulder level. "Why have you remained absent from me without explanation all these weeks? Are you even there to hear me now? Or is this just wishful thinking on my part?"
The Phantom clenched his jaw. Evidently Madame Giry had failed to deliver his note to Christine. The knowledge that she did not yet know of his decision unsettled him, tying his stomach into a painful knot and producing a hollow ache within his heart. To watch her now, to look upon her sweet face and into her shining eyes that beseeched him to respond, greatly tested his resolve.
"Christine," he whispered beneath his breath, soft enough that she could not hear him. He lifted his arm to touch with his gloved fingers the image of her delicate hand, and pressed his own palm to the glass over hers. He stood close enough that he could trigger the mirror's latch door, sweep her from the room and into his arms. No more caution, no more pretenses...
"My beautiful Angel of Music."
The desire to hold her close a second time burned strong inside him. But before he could flip the lever that opened the door, the horrific events of the previous evening jarred inside his mind like an organ's discordant chords.
Sacrifice …
His fingers slid down the glass as he dropped his arm to his side.
He had accomplished what he'd set out to do and satisfied his intense need to see her, to assure himself that she was indeed well. It had to be enough.
"In time, you will understand," he whispered. "In time, you will forget." He looked at her sweet face precious seconds longer before turning away, back to the solitary confinement he had made for himself far beneath the depths of the earth.
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Chapter Twelve (embedded video) in HD
I included bits from the last part, to show the nightmare Erik has been living since then, continually, as if to show him reliving it right then and give an idea of what he is going through. Also, it had been over a year since the last video (Act 10) and I wanted to refresh my viewers' memories. lol (This video story took 6 years to make from start to finish) - Anyway, hope you enjoy! ...
Showing here:
Clips from Phantom of the Opera 2004 movie, Smallville, and The Gospel According to Scrooge.
Music credits: Anna's theme from The Red Violin, I've Seen Hell- from BBC North & South soundtrack, assorted music from Phantasia.
(no copyright infringement intended- this falls under the Fair Use Copyright Act of 1976)
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