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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Chapter 13: Distances of the Heart

A/N: Sorry about the extended absence, I have not forsaken you! Thanks for all the reviews, they mean a lot to me. Now, for those naughty reviewers begging for some smutty-goodness: Patience! The sex will come, but Erik and Christine must first resolve a plethora of issues before the blood begins to rise and sleeping buds burst in to bloom, etc, etc. Worry not, I will not deny you erotic treats. You must wait just a little bit longer. R N’R

Oh, big thanks to Sparrow's Pearl for her helpful and detailed reviews :)

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A life lived in peaceful prosperity quickly caused one to forget the frantic mesh of voices and footsteps invading ones ears with their giddy delight and frustrated demands. Such was the life contained inside an opera house. The excitement, the harsh remarks of the tutors, trainers, and stagehands, and the lyrical laughter of young people stole ones ability to think. It was easy to become enraptured in the drama that the building promised.

Raoul let a long, deep sigh. His first time at the Populaire had been engraved in his memory forever. He was astounded by the splendor that glittered around him; the sheer elegance of the palace of the arts had enchanted him. No one could help but feel as though the dramatics of the stage called out to them as they immersed themselves in a world that promised laughter, tears, and tragedy followed by fine wine and cheerful conversation.

Such were the joys of old. Such were the joys of ignorance. Raoul could not tell if he was displeased with this particular opera house simply because it was, in fact, an opera house. He hated the colours, the staircase, the garish costumes, the pompous management, and the high ceilings adorned with paintings of scantily clad angels holding one another with their plump, pink hands. Why must places of such ethereal beauty provoke such dark memories?

The journey to this London opera house had been a long one indeed, and not one that he had expected to take. Uncle Jean had come out of his modest Scottish home that morning looking flustered. His cheeks were flushed; either from frustration or drink he did not know. His thick white moustache was beginning to yellow among the edges, nearly matching the colour of his crooked teeth.

He had greeted he and Philippe coldly while gripping their hands in his callused ones and muttering under his breath various curses and bitter grievances. As it were, they would not be able to discuss matters of business at this home; they would need to travel to the actual opera house so that he could negotiate matters with the staff in person.

It would seem nothing these days could be as simple as he hoped.

Now he stood in the grand entrance to the unfinished building. Gold and bronze adorned the walls and was magnified by the sunlight streaming through the windows. He often had to squint when stepping into the rays of light that lay across the golden tiles. The light in the windows played in the air, illuminating tiny specks of dust that floated about, basking in the warmth of the mid-afternoon glow.

It was strange, a sunny day in dreary London. He doubted that it would last much longer; the gray skies were sure to return by the morrow.

“Comte and Vicomte, this is Mr. Bennett, one of the fine men who will soon manage the opera house.” Raoul and Philippe shook hands with the man before them, smiling stoically and dutifully as they did so. The “fine men” sentiment seemed rather forced, if not a bit sarcastic. It was obvious that Jean De Changy knew little about graciousness.

“Gentlemen! I am so pleased that you could see us; we are in great need of your expertise. Especially yours, young man.” The red-faced, portly gentleman patted Raoul’s shoulder heartily. He also looked like a man who had drunk himself under the table one too many times. Dear God, what was to become of this budding establishment?

“Oh, Monsieur, I am glad that you feel my opinion to be worthwhile. I must admit that I was not a patron for very long, only a few short months really.” Raoul kept his expression warm, but a feeling of unease was beginning to creep over him. Mr. Bennett, who had yet to offer a first name, was grinning too widely. His fingers linked and unlinked too often. His agitation was clear.

“Oh, how much experience does one need when it comes to providing support for the wonderful world of the arts?” Raoul’s suspicions were correct.

“Oh, Monsieur. I am here to advise, not to provide…” Raoul was abruptly silenced when Philippe raised his hand.

“What do you mean by ‘supporting the arts’ pray tell?” Philippe’s eyes narrowed at the two men before him. The manager and his uncle exchanged awkward glances, their filmy blue eyes locking for an instant in mute concern.

“Oh, well, gentlemen…” Jean began, clearing his throat and adjusting his cravat. “Mr. Bennett knows that attaching the De Chagny name to this establishment will certainly encourage the upper crust to come out in droves, but I am in need of a little financial assistance from yourselves.”

“This was not what was mentioned in our correspondence. You are only now telling us that you are to be the patron and that you cannot afford the costs and need our direct involvement!” Philippe’s normally sturdy and confident posture disappeared, his shoulders dropping under the weight of this unexpected - and unwelcome - development.

“Yes, well, I did not feel it would be…courteous to discuss such important matters in letters. These things are best spoken about over some drinks, are they not?” If it were possible for skin to redden so much as to imitate a boiled lobster, Jean had surely achieved that feat.

“Courteous! It is not courteous to bring people to another country to preposition them for money under the guise of an informal discussion!” Raoul felt his face redden as well, a hot flush of anger coursed through him. Oh, how he wished he could forever abandon operas and far-away business excursions. He had not even wanted to go on this ridiculous voyage in the first place! No, he would not sponsor another opera house, he had put his days of ‘supporting the arts’ far behind him.

“My brother is right, this is most insulting.” Philippe had looked forward to the two-week trip. He had expected some random discussions, good brandy and cigars, and perhaps a little time the game rooms. Perhaps he would have been able to temporarily enjoy the company of young Scottish lass while away from Sorelli. Thinking of which, Sorelli had been far too busy for an evening out with him in quite some time. He made a note to himself to write her once this ridiculous business was set straight.

“Gentlemen, please.” Bennett began to stumble over his words. “We only ask a very small contribution, you shall be greatly rewarded for your services. We expect this to be a very profitable endeavor.”

“And if we refuse?” Raoul examined the wall behind his uncle, seemingly fascinated in the cherub mural that had taken nearly a year to complete.

“Well, if you do…” Jean stepped forward, the look of concern disappearing from his glassy eyes and turning to one of deviant intent. “Then I shall not hesitate to write both of you out of my will.”

Raoul let out a boisterous laugh. How could it possibly matter whether his uncle left him estates or not? He was not in need of any money. Besides, the bulk of the De Chagny property had gone to Philippe after their parent’s deaths.

“Such disrespect from a man whose wife is known to have had an affair with a wanted murderer!”

A silence fell over the men. A dark, ominous one.

“There was no such thing!” Raoul had a mind to wipe the grin of off his uncle’s face in the most aggressive fashion.

“It matters not if there was.” Jean continued somberly. “All that matters is that your reputation in this family is ruined, the only one who intends to keep you from being disowned is I, for I need your assistance. It is always a tragic fate for a nobleman scorned by his relatives; scandal is very bad for business, boy. You know how people talk…” He examined his nails, his brows lifted in a look of mock indifference, his voice trailed off liltingly.

“I do not care about reputations!” Raoul spat. Philippe raised his hand once more and placed it on his brother’s trembling shoulder.

“We need to worry about these things, Raoul.” He spoke softly.

Jean smiled once more.

“Yes, listen to your brother, boy. If you are to be cut-off completely you will be looked upon with disdain by society, and your wife and future heirs will no doubt suffer the consequences of your petulance. It would seem most of your family is quite eager to be rid of you, you did marry a common woman, after all.” Bennett spoke coldly, his face a grim image of smug satisfaction.

Silence descended once more, the air burned with indignation and defeat.

“Send for your things boy, you shall be here the three weeks at least. Also, you should expect to be traveling here far more often in the next few years. Patrons – even silent ones – need to oversee their business closely.” Jean did not doubt that Raoul would be most beneficial in sorting through matters that he was far too weary to concern himself with in his old age. Ah, such was the joy of having a young relative tainted by the misfortune of marrying beneath his station.

Raoul did not answer, but rather stormed out of the building, nearly knocking over a seamstress on his way out the oak double doors.

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The morning came swiftly. It was ironic, yesterday Christine wanted nothing more then to prolong the daylight to prevent her dark fate from arriving in a horse drawn taxi, now she wished for the nighttime to descend once more so as to avoid waking and having to begin what would no doubt be a challenging journey.

Perhaps she could have stolen several more hours of dream-filled sleep if it were not for the horrendous crashing and banging outside the house.

What in the name of all that is holy was he doing?

Pulling her robe around her she opened the heavy blue drapes and looked out into the glowing fields surrounding her. The sun beat against her skin, heating her face and neck. The banging continued, but there was no one to be seen.

Sighing heavily she let the heavy fabric close, blocking out the yellow rays that shone throughout the room. Dressing quickly, she walked outside, shielding her eyes from the punishing sun as she walked to the side of the house.

There he was, ruthlessly tearing apart the wooden paneling on the side of house. She would have thought him absolutely mad had she not seen the brilliantly polished wood lying on the grass behind him. Workmanship was indeed one of his many talents, and it would seem that his anger and frustration had given way to a form of artistry. It was too bad that he chose to nearly rebuild his home as opposed to something more…peaceful.

If he noticed her standing before him, he did not acknowledge her. It mattered not, she had no desire to speak to him after their falling-out the previous evening. She felt a twinge of remorse when recalling the deep hurt in his eyes, but he really had given her very little reason to trust him. Despite his promise not to touch her, she could not be sure of the value of his word.

Perhaps she would drown her sorrows in some sort of activity as well, something more relaxed than tearing down walls with her bare hands and a variety of strange instruments.

She walked back into the house, the atmosphere as dark and forbidding as ever. It would seem that even furniture and the air itself bent to the whims of its master. It was a very warm day, but still the air was cool.

A large room caught her eye and she walked towards it, carefully opening the cherry-wood French doors and stepping into a museum of literary works. Where he could have obtained all of them was a great mystery. Surely his belongings from the opera house were destroyed! She would ask him later, after she found out his name of course. That is, if he in fact had one at all.

His book collection had significant range. From science, to medicine, to literature, to poetry, and history. He had obtained a variety of discourses on politics and philosophy. Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Voltaire stood proudly beside the works of Plato and Socrates. It would seem he as educated in both ancient thought and the enlightenment era. It made sense that one so deprived of human interaction would bury themselves in the thoughts and stories of others.

His anthology of stories by Edgar Allan Poe looked worn, the pages yellowing with age and with creases in the spine, indicative of constant handling. Such macabre stories! Oddly enough he had not a single Shakespearean work. That was very curious indeed. He also was without a bible. He did possess several other works concerning matters of spirituality, especially those of Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. He was obviously never taught of the dangers of polytheism. She laughed silently to herself as she looked at the glossy texts before her.

She continued perusing the books, fascinated by the vast collection of work that must have kept him occupied during so many years of haunted silence. What a cold existence it must have been, buried deep beneath the world of the living in a subterranean hell of his own making.

With a near gasp of disbelief she reached out and touched the spine of a book written by the infamous Marquis de Sade, a man known for his lechery and disgusting depictions of intimate matters. Why was she not at all surprised that he would own this? Why was she so intrigued by the black leather cover? It would seem that he was fond of erotica; a shiver of unwanted excitement ran down her spine. The delightful sensation quickly abated when she looked upon the cracked spine of the famed Kama Sutra, a book spoken of in hushed tones in the ballet dormitories.

Tearing her eyes away from the explicit works, she picked up a worn copy of “Notre-Dame de Paris” by Victor Hugo. Madame Giry had often spoken of the importance of reading French literature. Perhaps this would make for enthralling afternoon reading.

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Christine walked towards the far edge of the riverbank. She would have read closer to the house, but much to her dismay, she happened upon the Phantom working diligently on his architecture naked from the waist up!

She had never expected to see him so; he seemed far too formal in his choices in clothing to parade around shirtless. It was blisteringly hot in the sun, yes, but still! What agonized her most was not his disregard, but rather her immediate reaction upon seeing his skin soaked with sweat, the muscles underneath flexing and releasing gracefully with every one of his graceful movements. He was a very large man, a very large and solid man.

She sat down upon a grassy slope and opened the book. The warmth of the sun felt wonderful against her back in her simple blue gown. Soon it would become unbearable, but for now it was comfortable. This booked also looked worn, it had been read more than once, but it smelt lovely. Not like a flowery fragrance, but like the musky and familiar smell of recently snuffed candles, the sweet smoke seemed to escape the crisp white pages.

As she turned another page, inhaling deeply, a tiny black figure scuttled across her lap. Her heart jumped into her throat as a wave of heat washed over her, stilling her hands.

The black figure was not so tiny after all. In fact, it was rather large. It continued to walk slowly, moving up towards her forearm which held the book on her lap. Letting out what could only be a pig-like squeal of distress, Christine jumped up, frantically pushing the hideous insect off of her.

The spider clung to the fabric of her dress as she desperately slapped at it, hoping to dislodge it with the frantic swipes while avoiding letting it touch her skin. The book flew out of her hand and landed in the river with a fatal splash. The hideous creature finally unhanded her and fell to the ground and began to scuttle away on its horrible little legs.

Letting out a low moan of despair, Christine pulled her skirt above her knee and stepped into the muddy waters, hoping she would be able to reach the book, although there was no doubt that it was indeed ruined by now. Oh, the Phantom would be even more outraged when he knew that she destroyed one of his books.

She had nearly reached what become merely a sopping wet pile of ink-stained papers when her balance gave out and she fell into the freezing water, the mud sucking in her left foot, causing her to topple sideways as gracelessly as a cow. With one final reach she managed to grasp the mangled work and fling it onto the grass.

The mud made a slurping noise as it tried desperately to keep her foot buried within it. The ledge that she would need to climb to get back on dry land was only two feet high, but the slickness of the moistened earth made her limbs fail miserably as she slipped downwards once more. She would absolutely die if she had to wade through the river and back to the house to be able to walk onto the grass, surely he would see her and think her madder than him!

Her hand nestled in the thick brown mud, her mind wandering to all of the unsightly wildlife that could be crawling near her right now. Her time in this place was surely doomed. To some, this may have seemed comical, but to her it was but a sign of things to come. The entrapment, the desperation, the humiliation, all of it was certainly imminent.

She wanted so badly to sink into the cold brown water, her clothes were as good as ruined now. The soft velvety material would never again regain its original texture after being caked with dirt and submerged in the water. She nearly laughed, how fitting was this? Being trapped in icy water, helpless to pull out.

As she made her final attempt to climb out before resigning herself to the mortification of waddling back the house two hands gripped her beneath the arms and effortlessly hauled her up and onto the ground. Letting out a soft cry of surprise, she felt her cheek brush against the taut flesh of a man.

Stumbling, she blindly reached out and clutched his shoulders in an to attempt to steady herself. Her breathing was hoarse and uneven and her body shivered violently, the beating sun offering no warmth as her skin puckered into tiny goose bumps. Her skin felt as though it was shrinking and wrapping tightly around her chilled bones.

“I grew weary of watching you struggle.” The clipped voice above her drew her eyes upward so that they may meet his cold blue ones. There was no concern in those eyes, nor was there any amusement. Perhaps it was anger. Sadness possibly. Yet the distance between them at that time was strangely contradictory considering the physical closeness of their bodies. It would seem that he was still angry about the lock incident.

“Thank you.” There was nothing more she could say. Berating him for his coldness would be futile, as would protesting against his assistance. If she were to claim that she could have gotten up on her own both would know it was a lie.

He held her shoulders still, the trembling beneath his hands nearly robbed him of the bitterness that coloured his vision red the night before and made him frantic for a task with which to channel his rage at his own stupidity.

Why did he feel like he was losing control just staring at her muddy and wet body? Why was he so quick to forget all of the pain he suffered at her hands when she simply allowed him to touch her shoulders?

“You should change.” She watched his throat contracted as he averted his eyes from her and stepped away.

“I plan to.” She picked up a strand of her hair, inwardly grimacing at how difficult it was going to be to comb through the immense mud-soaked tangles.

Watching her touch her hair caused him to gasp silently. The unflattering brown earth coating her body did not detract from how the gown hugged her figure, emphasizing a tiny waist and small, firm breasts. Had he been a normal man and she his wife, he would have warmed her by promptly tearing the dress from her body and taking her right there in the grass. Unfortunately, such were not the joys of their relationship.

He abruptly turned from her, the images in his mind becoming far too desirable. How he wanted to feel her pressed beneath him, arching into his body for warmth, capturing his lips between her own as she begged him to touch her, taste her, take her.

How he wanted to hate her. To punish her for his miseries, to make her pay for his loneliness with her heart, body and mind.

Without a word she stormed back to the house, partly out of discomfort. Partly out of shock. He had been so distant and cold. His eyes were nearly the colour of ice, even his skin felt eternally cold and lifeless. The chest that she had been pressed against was nearly as hard and empty as the porcelain that concealed part of his face.

In her mind, she knew she should be overjoyed at his indifference. Yet she was not. The barriers he had placed around him were frightening; it was as though the man who plucked her from the river was a stranger. Too often, he would go from the passionate and poetic Angel to the devious and unfeeling monster. The Phantom. Who was that man? More importantly, why did she really want to know?

A/N: Just a quick point, “Notre Dame De Paris” is the French title (and the original one) for “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.”
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Black Angels