354Ch. 27— The Angel of Death
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Erik was sure Christine's hand had been about to fall off with how much he had been having her write; from the final transcription notes for his opera to the communiques he was now addressing to all his staff. He had yet to meet with Reyer, and the way things had gone with Giry and Fermin, he didn't know if he wanted to. For now, he would take the coward's way and communicate via phone and letter with him as he had been doing for the last five months.
In a rare display of compassion for the girl, Erik had insisted Christine stay behind with a book in their 'tub' for a couple hours while he attended afternoon rehearsals.
Good God! But it was painful to listen to it all and not be able to mount the stage and get his circus back on track.
The New Year's Gala was tomorrow night, and Lord help him, he didn't think he could go through with putting an appearance there. He once more felt the terrible terrain his face had become and closed his sightless eyes. He could run his theatre with a ruined wreck of a face. He had to, and there was no changing it, but there was very little to no chance of running it blind.
If it was as Christine and Nadir thought, and his blindness was only a symptom of his head, he needed to find a way to overcome it and fast.
And unfortunately, he thought he knew how. He had been running from his thoughts, and in doing so had found a safe-haven in alcohol, in music, and in Christine's arms. But still he rarely slept, for in sleep he remembered.
He couldn't block out their screams, their cries, the smell of bodies rotting in the summer sun. His squadron had been too late. One hour too late, and in that time an entire village had been eviscerated: men, women, children, old, and young gone in a blink.
They had found very few survivors.
One such was a little girl who couldn't have been older than three. Erik had found her blood-soaked and clutching her mother; her mother who no longer had a lower half to speak of. He had mesmerized the child, urging her to forget the sight and sleep while he passed her on to safety.
Another child he had consigned to death.
The lad was in so much pain, and there wasn't anything Erik could do except make him comfortable in his final moments. He did so, also using his gift of mesmerism to sooth the child to sleep so death could find him quickly. In fact, so many times had he had to do this over the last year, and each time, it scored his heart, adding to the raucous horror-filled chorus that would feature nightly in his dreams if he allowed it.
Suddenly knowing what he must do, Erik donned his hat and standing from his seat in box five, began making his way down to the lower bowels of the opera house.
It was time to confront all these horrors, these phantoms, and ghosts, and put them to bed once and for all.
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Christine waited for him.
It was going on ten o'clock at night and still Erik had not come back from attending afternoon rehearsals.
She hadn't been worried, at least, not until she'd felt this terrible foreboding fill her. She had stood, the book she was reading falling unheeded to the floor.
He needed her. God, he needed her. She could feel it.
But she didn't know where to go.
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Screaming and crying, Erik let memory after war-torn memory assault him, process through him, wring him dry, and leave him spent.
He shouted, and his voice was echoed back manifold in the caverns at the house by the underground lake. He moaned his grief, his tears falling unchecked, and the heart-rending sound was lifted to the heavens in offering for what he could not change.
He cursed God's name in anger and spite, vengeance, and pain as every face he had consigned to death appeared before him—so many innocent souls visited by the Angel of Death, a man who would, with the sound of his voice, ease the already dying into the loving embrace of death itself.
He and his contingent of men had been assigned to help liberate a section of Paris from German forces. It was supposed to be a well-coordinated blitzkrieg meant to save many lives and cripple the Nazi regime.
It was, instead, a nightmare.
Someone had made known their plans, had betrayed them to the S.S.
The Nazis were ready and waiting for them in the village, miles before they reached their target.
One by one, his contingent had fallen until there was a scant smattering left. They had huddled together as well they could, protecting each other from oncoming fire by gathering in an abandoned house. And too, this suited the Nazis well, for, with a mortar shell, their job was done, and his men annihilated.
Erik had been one of the only survivors, and the guilt he felt!
The sounds of his weeping were heartbreaking to hear, magnified as they were by the cavernous space, and they went on and on as each death, each face, each remembrance was purged of infection from within himself and freed.
He had tried.
He had given everything he could to help ease the suffering of his fellow man, including those that were his enemies. For four years, he had used every ploy in his arsenal to see his family—his motley cast and crew, many of them labeled 'undesirable' under Nazi regime due to being gypsy, Jew, 'strange' or 'defective' in some way—kept hidden and safe. He kept them hid in this very house by the underground lake, and while hidden, he hadn't lost a single soul under his care.
But he could do nothing for the world beyond it.
He had tried his best. Upon becoming a lieutenant, he had tried his best to protect the men assigned him, but away from the Populaire, in the war-ravaged countryside, he could not.
And oh, how he grieved for them, how he grieved! His voice raised to the heavens in lamentation as he confronted each ghost, both of the enemy and not, of every man, woman, and child he couldn't save. Those of whom he had witnessed dying and helped ease into death.
As Erik remembered, he gradually began to feel the sweet balm of both acceptance and absolution fill him.
Wrung out of tears, voice hoarse from grief, body soaked with the flash-terror sweat of remembrances past, for the first time in four years, Erik slept, and in sleeping did not dream.
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He awoke stiff and cold, curled as he was on the stone floor, but he awoke lighter in spirit than he'd felt in years.
Stretching muscles gone stiff and limping, he stood and made his way over to where he knew the fireplace to be. He was in darkness, unrelieved. And he had been in darkness for so long…
Steeling himself, he turned the nob, and a fire sprung to life in the grate.
Erik drew a shuttering breath, his heart beating timpani in his ears, and opened his eyes.
He could see the flames.
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Christine had called Nadir.
It was morning now, and still there was no word from him, no note, nothing.
She didn't know what else to do but reach out to the elderly physician. However, he was in surgery and couldn't be reached.
She knew of no one else besides Monsieur Fermin and Madam Giry she could ask, and she was loathed to do so, but if something didn't happen soon, she would be forced to...
And still on she paced in the living room and waited. Waited, paced, and prayed to God he was alright.
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The stone house was much as Erik remembered it, unchanged, for his charges had kept it neat and spotlessly so. They had taken care of this—their home for the last three years, and even though it had been unoccupied for the last five months, there was still an air of 'homecoming' about the place, of warmth and cheer.
His charges had made their home here at the seat of Sweet Music's Throne—his Great Grandfather's name for this little abode, and many of them took time to perfect their crafts; Antoinette's Marguerite, a child of gypsy blood, had learned to dance in the dark, to make friends with it. Little Jammes, too. And if Erik had wanted a fun evening's entertainment, he had only to come down here to visit, for his charges had kept one another entertained with stories and dramas—oh the dramas!— of the goings-on behind the scenes, feeding and fabricating the grist that kept the gossip mill running along.
These were his phantoms of the opera, these opera ghosts, for in the three years of their confinement while Paris was being occupied, they protected this theatre—their home—and all the inhabitants within it as fiercely as Erik did himself.
He smiled wryly when he recalled what had happened when one of the SS had asked to take a tour of the cellars. Erik had held a seminar on ventriloquism for them the week before and had instructed Little Jammes, especially, on how to throw her voice. She had chased the Nazi, giggling and hissing like a snake from the cellar passages all the way back to the first level where the blackguard returned to them white as a sheet and almost begging his commandant to be gone.
Erik had never felt so proud.
Taking a deep breath, he turned his back to the fire and went to the lavatory. Flipping a switch, the room flooded with electric light, and pursing his lips, Erik braced himself and looked up into his reflection.
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"Yes, Dr. Kahn, I don't know where he could have gone. I've notified Madam Giry only just a few minutes ago. He's been missing since early afternoon yesterday, and now it's going on afternoon. I'm so worried." Christine tried to keep the panicked hysteria out of her voice. "Anything could have happened. Anything, and I'm not there with him."
She tried to take comfort from his words, she did, but she couldn't. Every cell—every atom—within her was screaming she needed to go to him, to find him.
Madam Giry had been less than helpful. Monsieur Fermion even less so. Dr. Kahn advised he would be there as soon as he could but said it could still be a few hours from now as he had patients to tend. It was a disheartened Christine that hung up the phone.
But then an idea occurred to her. She called the Populaire's operator. "Operator, can you get me Meg Giry?"
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No words.
There were no words for his face.
He held up his hand, shaking in disbelief, to his macabre visage, shock vying with horror for supremacy within. Is this really what he looked—
Was this really how he—
His mind, his poor ravaged, war-torn mind couldn't make sense of it. Everything he was, everything he was trying to build, all of it crumbled to dust as he saw himself in the mirror.
And wept.
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"Meg, I need you to take me down…. Just… take me down," Christine said wild-eyed to the little ballerina once she finally located her.
She prayed, oh, she prayed she could find him!
There was something, some niggling sense that told her she needed to go to the deepest part of the opera house, that this would be where he'd be, and she listened to that intuition as the little ballerina began leading her hurriedly through the secret passages down further and further until neither of them could see, and Christine could only rely on the girl's hand holding hers to tell her where she was going.
It seemed an eternity of darkness passed in silence before she began to hear lapping as if water hitting the shore, and her eyes widened in realization that he'd been telling her the truth. There really was an underground lake which meant there was probably a house as well.
They blindly turned a corner and came upon a cavernous space. Unhesitating, the ballerina chose the vault to the left and pulled Christine onward, and down they went again, down and down. The water's lapping grew louder and louder, and Christine could smell the scent of fresh water.
They turned another blind corner, and then Christine saw it.
The house by the underground lake. The lights were on casting diamond shimmering patterns across its surface, and it was the most solitary, beautiful architectural creation she had ever seen. A sound had her drawing Meg up short as she waited for it to happen again.
There it was again, a broken sound as if someone were… sobbing. Oh, Erik.
"Meg, how do I get over there?"
The little ballerina, her eyes wide and fearful, gestured she should follow her, and Christine did so, carefully picking her way to a well-disguised ledge cut from the rock face leading from the side of the lake to under the portcullis to the front stairs.
Christine gently laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, and whispered, "Thank you for your help, Meg."
The girl looked at her worriedly. "But Mr. D'Anton. He needs—"
"—someone to protect him now," Christine broke in gently giving the ballerina a level look. "He needs his friends, he needs his family. He needs to be shown love and inclusion and acceptance, Meg. That's what he needs most."
"But I—"
"You need to prepare yourself, prepare the others of whom you trust who will, without a doubt, be there for him, let them know of what they will see when they look… of what he looks like now. Let it be known to these precious few, but Meg do not gossip about it, do NOT bring him any humiliation."
"N-no," the little ballerina shook her head earnestly, "No. I would never—"
Christine nodded to the way they had come, "Good. Prepare yourselves because he is going to need you all. Now please, go."
So saying, Christine turned her back on the girl and began making her way up the stone stairs, drawing a composed breath before she gained the landing and opened the door.
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Erik heard the click-click of sensible shoes on stone and closed his eyes.
His nurse. His wife. And God! What a disastrously joyful moment was this? He would finally be able to gaze upon the face of his beloved and see the pity, the revulsion that must surely be present on hers when she looked at him.
She was behind him now, and he could not turn around.
He could not.
"E-erik," she intoned softly, laying a gentle hand upon his back, "Did you regain your sight?"
Not having the words to speak, not having the voice to tell her…
Was it too late for her to get their marriage annulled? He would not contest it in the slightest. How could she stand to be married to this thing—this loathsome beast—this creature before her who she'd allowed to—
"I have been waiting for this moment, you know, with some dread-horror of my own," she whispered into the stillness. "It's safer when you can't be seen. The eyes, as intimately connected to the brain as they are, make snap judgments, brain synapses firing before one's even aware. Opinions forming based on past experience of what one finds pleasing to the eye and what one finds distasteful. The saying's true: you never get a second chance at a first impression."
He shook his head, "Christine, I know you're beautiful."
He heard her gulp. "H-husband, turn around to l-look at your wife."
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Steeling himself for the disgust he was going to find in her eyes, he turned and beheld his beloved girl.
She stood stoop-shouldered and uncertain there waiting to be judged by him, her mouth not quite hiding the grimace of discomfort she felt. And it was just as she said, his brain began making snap-judgments, slightly revising the mental facsimile of her he had created for himself.
Her hazel eyes, the color he had imagined them to be, were wide-set lending her the appearance of being one of the fey, her nose was exactly as he thought, down to its pert, button-shape. Her cheekbones were prominent and high, framing her heart-shaped face with its pointed chin. That top lip that he loved to suckle was cupid-bowed, and even as he watched, she drew her tongue up to wet it. Her honeyed curls were scraped back into a serviceable bun where, even now, a few curls wanted to escape, and that beautiful body of hers remained hidden behind the shapeless, dowdy clothes she wore.
Her beauty was unusual. It was striking in fact.
But before he was injured, if he had passed her by on the street, Erik would never have noticed her once never mind twice.
Oh, yes, but it was there if one took the time to look… if one took the time to appreciate… "You are beautiful, Christine," he said, unsurprised to hear a note of awe in his voice.
She smiled, and there were tears swimming in her eyes, "Yes. As are you, Erik. Because love is blind, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder." She threw up her hands, "You make me feel beautiful, and so I am."
And that's when he realized she had been staring at him, and he saw no revulsion, no pity in her gaze, none but the deepest, most loyal regard, love, and respect.
He reached for her, and she came crashing into his arms.
They barely made it to the bedroom as mouths fused, she grasped and he pulled, and the two of them tugged at one another's clothes. Erik, however, stilled her progress once they tumbled upon the master bed. His honey-golden gaze meeting her own as he said, "Slowly. I want to savor this, my girl."
His words caused her to blush, but not from embarrassment. No, his bride would no longer feel anything akin to embarrassed or ashamed where he was concerned; he would ensure it. Drawing the pins one by one from her hair, he watched as the amber-golden mass tumbled free in the firelight, setting her curls to shimmering. He brought a mass of curls to his lips, inhaling her lavender-citrus scent. "Beautiful girl."
Removing her sensible shoes, he lifted her skirt and took off one of her much-repaired and patched stockings with his teeth, his eyes never leaving her own. Although she did blush beautifully, she did not do so in shame.
Next, he removed her faded red gingham shirtwaist. With a tug, he separated it from the voluminous drab gray skirt she wore and began to unbutton it.
All the while, his eyes remained fastened to hers, refusing to let her shy away.
He reached for the clasp of her brassier and dexterously unfastened it. She did blush fully then and lowered her eyes to the bed.
Erik shook his head, "Nuh, uh, uh, little mouse. No modesty between us. I won't allow it. Look at me."
At his command, her eyes flew to his, and he grinned. "I know you, Christine. My hands know your body, my nose knows your scent, my lips know your taste, and I know how beautiful you sound, especially when you're in the thrall of release. It's only my eyes, beloved, that are beggars at the feast of you, and I am starved."
His words had a palpable effect on her, and biting her lip, she again met his stare and helped him as he revealed more of herself to his sight.
Her breasts tumbled free from their binding, and Erik held her gaze still, not wanting her to shy away. When he was certain she would not, he released her and looked his fill. Coral-colored aureoles, her breasts tear-dropped and beautiful; the sight set his mouth to watering, and he could not, would not, wait to have a taste. Dipping down, he drew one pearl-sized nipple into his mouth and suckled, his eyes watching hers.
Hazel eyes alit with glowing embers of passion, her breathing hitched as he suckled, and a low moan was wrested from her that set his heart to racing.
Smiling, he caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers before releasing her breast and beginning to undo the ties at her skirt. The color of drab, Erik could only shake his head, thanking the Great Almighty his little mouse had learned to camouflage herself so well as to be saved for him.
Because underneath the potato sacking sweater, the sensible shoes, much-mended stockings, faded red gingham, and drab gray skirt, his little Diva was stacked from her full and voluptuous breasts and tiny waist to the beautifully rounded globes of flesh at her seat.
She. Was. Beautiful.
And she was his.
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If Christine thought their love-making was intense when Erik was blind, she was scorched with fire when he could see.
His eyes refused to release hers as he plied her body with such exquisite contact and care. There were no hurried touches, no fumbling grasps.
He worshipped her, and she, in turn, glowed for him.
It wasn't long before she felt her climax overcome her, but when she reached for him, intent on drawing him within her, his honey-golden gaze promised such wicked delight, he shook his head.
No, his eyes said, he wanted to make a feast of her, to glut himself on the sight of her arousal as he pleasured her, and although Christine was nervous. She was being watched after all. Her husband's touch was what she knew intimately, and she focused on that while his eyes held hers. She felt another release begin to build.
He began giving her teasing kisses and flicks with his tongue in the most intimate of places. Again, still he watched her, but she refused to shy away from his honey-golden gaze. She refused to feel embarrassment or shame.
She knew his touch, she knew his wicked tongue, and that sweet release, that feeling he invoked so easily within her left her shaken, fundamentally shaken.
As he came up from pleasuring her, he reached to kiss her, and she gloried in the taste of her passion on his lips.
"Oh, my beautiful one," he said reverently. And this time when he called her 'beautiful', Christine believed.
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The sounds his wife made as he brought her pleasure were a gift, but the sight of her attaining pleasure's peak was awe-inducing, and he sought to invoke that feeling within her again and again, bringing her to the brink.
But she wanted to give back to him; he could see it in her eyes, sense it in her little body, now so sweat-dappled and glowing from his ministrations. She began kissing his chest, making her way down, then down, and then down again until she was eye-to-eye with the length of him.
She looked up and met his gaze.
He saw the banked fires of passion, but no timidity, no fear. No shame.
He reached for her, and she opened that beautiful mouth—that mouth which he knew could form such perfect and exquisite notes. Her beautiful voice hummed her pleasure as she took in his length.
He closed his eyes. He couldn't help it. The sensations she was invoking within him, giving him teasing flicks and licks, mimicking his pleasuring of her which happened only a moment ago. And then she applied suction, and he moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as he involuntarily clenched her tighter to him.
Rolling his hips, he had to stop himself for he could feel himself start to climb the peak, and he didn't want this to be how he spent himself. Oh, no. He wanted to look into her eyes as he took her, claimed her. His beautiful Christine.
He reached to draw her up, and with a move of practiced ease because of her grace, he had her rolled beneath him and her legs parted to accept him.
Sliding home within her, he watched as she closed her eyes on an 'ah', and her sigh of delight was music to his ears. Her little muscles began clutching around him bringing him yet closer to that final plunge. He began to move, and her eyes opened, meeting his. Again, she did not shy away from his gaze, and Erik saw such love and wonder and beauty in her eyes as she looked upon him, demanding him to not be self-conscious in any way.
And he was not. He could not. Not facing the fires of her passion.
He dipped down and kissed her lips, and she wound around him, her body rising to meet his in time to the lover's rhythm they set, and he moaned at the sheer joy and intensity of making love to the beautiful creature before him.
His orgasm was approaching quickly now, and he would have her tumbling with him.
He pistoned his hips into her own, and she cried out, her beautiful voice ringing to the rafters and echoing off the stone of Sweet Music's Throne. He felt her start to crest, and bowing over her, he plunged deep and true, his own release ripped from him as his voice joined together with hers in their lover's duet.
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A/N: You know, when you write and decide to put it out there for others to read, it's terrifying in parts because you all get to see my most vulnerable self, published however anonymously as ffn can be. It takes courage, I think, to begin a work and see it through. And so, I'm gathering my courage to finish this darn thing. Wish me luck for we are winding to the close slowly but surely.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for your patience!
-PFP