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Rossignol	By : Savaial Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 5240 -:- 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
- 1-Rossignol
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Ch 4
- 5-Ch 5
- 6-Ch 6
- 7-7
- 8-Ch 8
- 9-Ch 9
- 10-Ch 10
- 11-Ch 11
- 12-Ch 12
- 13-Ch 13
- 14-Ch 14
- 15-Ch 15
- 16-Ch 16
- 17-Ch 17
- 18-Ch 18
- 19-Ch 19
- 20-Ch 20
- 21-Ch 21
- 22-Ch 22
- 23-Ch 23
- 24-Ch 24
- 25-Ch 25
- 26-Ch 26
- 27-Ch 27
- 28-Ch 28
- 29-Ch 29
- 30-30- Epilogue
- 12
- 13
- 14
I managed to make it to my room before I collapsed. Violent tremors tore through me, threatened to tear me apart. I couldn't breathe, but I sucked air like a set of smithy bellows. The pores of my face were enflamed, but the air that struck them felt like ice.

Erik's eyes danced in my head, their gold depths lit with voracious hunger. Hunger for me. I rolled onto my side, curling into a ball against the trembling in my pelvis. I wasn't the only one in the house who wanted things. I had never seen such naked craving, nor had I ever reacted to another's desires like this!

The ease and power of his every movement awakened a sleeping beast within me. I responded to him on an instinctual level, on a level I neither understood nor cared to understand, but I could not follow instinct here. If he'd felt comfortable with taking me, he wouldn't have run away. He had vowed to be my protector. He obviously didn't think he could be my guardian if he took me to his bed. Or rather, his coffin.

The coffin instigated it all.

He slept in a coffin.

The Angel of Death would have to sleep in a coffin, wouldn't he? He would be wrapped in death inside and out. I'd been afforded an accidental peek past the shroud, and taken it without thought. It had not occurred to me that I might pay for that short glimpse into Erik’s private world.

Erik had wanted me, if only for a moment.

I dragged myself into the bathroom and started the tub taps. My head spun so horribly with emotion I forgot to plug the drain at first. I eyed the Persian print robe hanging on the door, so casually borrowed by Christine, so casually surrendered by Erik, so casually worn by myself. I saw it as an extension of him; masculine, bold, graceful in line, warm and redolent of patchouli. I hung it up, continuing to stare at it. When I first let it touch my skin I knew I loved it. It made me feel safe. It was a visual clue to a powerful benefactor.

Now I felt like putting it back on would mean other things as well. I could pass it off as simple convenience, for it did slide so easily around my cast, but I would know better and so would he. The robe would not go back on then, except for bed. I would sleep in it. It would lie against my naked skin. He would not take it from me.

The bath helped me little by little. I unwound, but kept my ears open for the sound of Erik returning. The only thing that I could think about was his state of mind, and so my own state passed into serenity.

Oh he fascinated me. He seemed a devious puzzle, one that promised a reward for patient endurance. If only I could know where to begin drawing him out! I needed a first step, a single correct movement to start; I couldn't just rush headlong. If only Raoul wasn't in the way! It was his fault I didn't have a prayer getting closer to Erik, because he had given me to his care. Like I was a valuable vase or family heirloom! I was a grown woman, I had the need to be loved like anyone else. That had been denied me all my life.

I was interested in Erik. He made me feel special, womanly. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with this new revelation though; I was ignorant of romance. But I had a right to pursue what I wanted, didn't I?

But I could not force Erik to woo me. I could not force Raoul to mind his own business. I could not force information from Christine's unwilling lips. I envied Erik the ability to manipulate people with his voice, for it would be an easy way to get what I wanted. Since I could hardly hope to glean such an unearthly ability, I would have to be clever instead. I would have to play to win without revealing my intentions. I had plenty of experience in holding the few cards allotted to me; I would just have to find an angle for each member of my opera.

So…

Raoul would not be able to stop me giving my heart to anyone I chose, even if he didn't mind his own business. I didn't need Christine to tell me anything about Erik. All that left me in the dark was Erik himself.

Clean and clad in Erik's robe, I sat before my dressing table for the first time. It had been years since I'd seen myself; I hadn't even thought to do it before now either. Erik had awakened me to my own body and mind…

I saw my mother staring back at me in the glass.

It gave me an unpleasant twinge to see her there, looking at me with dumb horror. She/I continued to stare. I thought I might hate her. I thought I might almost hate myself for being her. No, I did hate her.

I hated her for leaving me with no ally, with no friend in a house dominated by my two arrogant brothers. I hated her for not telling me of the ways between men and women, for not preparing me for this moment in my life. I hated her for not knowing what HE had done to me. I hated her for being the beautiful, cold, distant star I never had a prayer of reaching. I hated her for limiting my usefulness to being a wife, a breeder, something to own and abuse. And most of all, I hated her for having my face.

The mirror smashed. The sound was final, blissful, and elegant in its fury. Every piece that fell rang with music, from the tinkling of tiny chimes to the clang of sleigh bells. Desperate, needing to hear it, I struck again and again until nothing hung in the frame. When silence reigned again I heard the steady drop-drop of blood. My hand was ruined. I looked at it and sighed. Now I would have to pick glass out of my flesh and find a bandage.

The gleaming white sink showed my blood very well. For a while I amused myself with watching the swirls ooze down the drain. Precious, precious blood. I would decide when to stop it from sliding out of me. I would decide. Not Raoul with his afterthought concerns, not Erik with his dominating aura, not Christine with her well-meaning evasiveness.

For the sake of whimsical spite, I drew a circle, two eyes and a smile on the sink basin. It drooped and smeared, reminding me of crying clown. It struck me so funny I laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a long time before I could steady myself to remove the shards of mirror.

************************************************************************************

My house seemed quiet as a tomb. I listened for Celeste, but heard nothing. Doubtless I had frightened her into an early bedtime. Guilt slunk like a thief into my heart. What would I say to her on the morrow? She knew what I had been thinking; she knew how a man acted when he wanted a woman. All her views were tainted, but I would be the best view of corruption she could ever clap eyes on, and I would be nothing but a reinforcement of all I attempted to help her banish. I had to curb myself severely now. In fact, I had to avoid her as much as I could.

The creak of her door brought my eyes forward. Celeste stood motionless in the hall, her eyes glazed. She walked in her sleep again. She came toward me. I held my breath, wondering if she would even see me if I remained silent.

Celeste wore nothing under the Persian robe. Each step brought a leg through the front opening, a rhythmic cycle of flashing white. The valley between her breasts, dark and mysterious, gleamed with droplets of water. Her hair hung wet, not damp. I released my breath in a rush of masculine appreciation, instantly feeling shame for ogling her while she struggled with whatever inner battle had brought her out.

She walked to the door and tripped the hidden mechanism as if she'd done it her entire life. I followed her out. She stopped at the edge of the lake, balancing on one foot to trace an arc with the toe of her other one against the black silver water. She did not seem to notice the cold at all.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word,
Mother's going to buy you a mockingbird,
And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Mother's going to buy you a diamond ring,
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mother's going to buy you a looking glass..."

Celeste laughed, her beautiful voice ringing out across the lake. Her song had not been a child's song. I shivered. The woman tugged at my heart. Had I caused this? My mesmerism? She did not sound like the Celeste who lived in a closet. She sounded like me. Mocking, ominous, bitter and bone-weary. But her voice…

Her voice staggered me. Celeste’s pure tones sounded like heaven’s bells. She had a perfect instrument underneath all that scratch of disuse. My mind and body fused together in a powerful longing to train that voice, to hear it sing arias or just to say my name. She could be great under my tutelage, a magnificent diva…

Why was her hand bound?

And why was she slowly wading out into the water?

"Celeste,” I whispered, throwing my voice into her ear. "Where are you going?"

She stopped instantly, only getting in enough to wet her ankles and the hem of my robe. "Anywhere I want," she replied, her tone full of defiance and strength. "I'm tired of being property."

"You aren't property here; I make no claim to own you."

She did not respond. I tried again.

"Why don't you come back inside," I coaxed gently; "I brought you a present."

Celeste's head moved slightly.

"For me Erik?"

I sighed with relief. She was interested.

"Yes, for you, who else?"

"I don't really want anything though," she answered stubbornly, shifting in the watery sand. "Why would you get me a present anyway?" Her sightless eyes drifted over the dark water…

"I like buying gifts, I thought you might like getting one."

"Oh." Celeste turned and began walking to me. "That was very nice of you Erik; I haven't had a present in a very long time." She stood before me, her distant eyes fogging over as she looked past me to the door. I took the opportunity to look down at her hand. It was wrapped in a piece of something lacy, red spots showing through in many places.

"Come inside and sit down, I'll get your present." I motioned her inside, never letting up on the willful focus of my tone. "I won't be long."

"I can wait forever," she responded, sitting lightly on the couch. "I'm very, very good at waiting for what I want." Her tone left me no room for doubt. Celeste had been waiting for things her entire life; she knew how to stay the distance. I felt a flash of genuine admiration for her endurance, her will to live. How strong she had to be, how patient!

“I’m good at waiting too; that makes us similar, doesn't it?" I said, bringing the black velvet box out of my cloak's inner pocket and handed it to her slowly. She took it, but sat without even trying to open it.

"What is it?" I asked, a prickle of fear running up my spine. Perhaps she was still angry with me? She could have changed her mind…

"Nothing, why should I hurry?" Celeste looked down at her lap, turning the box over and over in her hands. She stroked the velvet knap with her unmarred hand.

"May I look at your hand while you open the present? I'm in no rush either."

"Whatever you like Erik, but the bleeding has stopped. I'm in no danger." She answered me distractedly, uncaring, but her voice still maintained a hard edge.

"Do you mind telling me what happened?" It was essential I knew what she had done if I was to help her. I could undo all sorts of damage, but not if I wasn’t aware of it. Her mind was still a mystery to me in many areas.

"Yes, I do.” Celeste blinked and turned her head to stare into the fireplace. “I'm not interested in discussing it."

"But I don't want it to happen again, I don't want you hurt in my home."

"It won't happen again, it can't.” Celeste assured me tonelessly. “You worry too much about me; I'm not made of glass." She paused, smiling a cold smile of contentment. "At least, I don't think I am. How would I know if someone had broken me?"

Despite the ambiguous overtone of madness in Celeste's choice of words, I knew she wasn't crazy. I'd heard similar things coming out of my own mouth at times, and also things much worse. I had to conclude she simply had a private joke. A private joke about glass and her hand.

Her lullaby came back to me. She'd destroyed her mirror. Well, at least this was an injury I knew something about. But she wasn’t ugly. Why would she hate her own image? I unwound her makeshift bandage. The ruin underneath did indeed look very familiar. She'd at least washed it and applied ointment, and she miraculously hadn’t sliced into any major veins. I rewound her handiwork, promising to myself that I would take another look in the morning. For now she was safe.

"You can't be broken Celeste, you're stronger than that," I said in response to her question. I stopped trying to command her with my voice, she obviously wanted to talk to me or she'd have tried to leave again. "You got this far didn't you? You made it here."

"Yes. Yes, I made it here." Celeste pried open the box. For a moment she simply stared down into it, but then she smiled. "This is beautiful Erik," she said softly.

The silver necklace reflected the firelight, glowing like a moonbeam. The angel upon it seemed to wink at me.

"I'm glad you find it pleasing. I wanted you to have a reminder."

"A reminder…" Celeste clasped it around her neck deftly. It hung between her breasts, glimmering faintly. "I know what I see when I look at it, I wonder what you will see,” she added mysteriously.

"I suppose I will see that you've accepted me as your angel." My answer came easily enough, but I knew she referred to what had happened between us.

"That does very well for me, but Raoul is going to see something else." Celeste frowned. She looked at me straight on for the first time. Her eyes, though glazed with sleep, were knowing. "I want to know why he thinks the way he does,” she announced softly. “Do you know?"

"Yes, I know." I could imagine his reasoning anyway. He would see the necklace as a gift one gives to a prospective lover. He would not see my altruistic gesture as a kind one. And perhaps he would be right. I held feelings for Celeste, feelings that I hadn’t realized or begun to ponder through until tonight.

"Are you going to tell me?" Celeste continued to stare at me.

"You'll know tomorrow, I promise,” I vowed, keeping to my original determination of not playing Bluebeard. If she wanted to know the details of why her brother feared me I had to deliver. I had to be honest and show her my own ugliness if she was to entrust me with hers. I only hoped she never asked to see my physical ugliness.

I got up and got the needle of morphine that had been waiting for her all day. She only took her painkiller when I insisted upon it. "I am too tired to go into such a long story. I'm going to give you more morphine; you need to sleep the night through." This was true. If she didn’t sleep and actually rest, she’d worsen. I wasn’t about to allow that to happen.

She sat compliantly, unresponsive to the needle, hand toying at her new jewelry with idle fascination. I sat with her until she fell under the narcotic's power, and then lifted her in my arms. Even as dead weight she was as light as new fallen snow.

The crunch of glass under my feet alerted me to the state of her dressing mirror. I laid her in the bed and turned to stare at the empty frame. I had to laud her thoroughness; there wasn't a shred of glass anywhere but on the floor.

“You’re dead mother,” Celeste murmured almost incoherently. “I am me now.”

So that was it. She looked like her mother.

I buried my face in my hands, feeling the mask press into my flesh. The poor child. Not even her mother had been an ally in her wretched life. I knew what that was like too.

A flare of anger ignited in my ribcage. I was perfectly willing to continue caring for Celeste, I wanted to continue, but I would be damned if the Vicomte didn't know what was happening! He lay in his bed each night, comfortable that his sister had a competent watchdog. He'd lain easy in his own bed these ten years while Celeste battled for her very mind, and even before that he'd slept innocently, unaware his own father was molesting her. It had struck me odd that the girl would want a masked stranger for her shelter more than her own brother, but when I thought of it now it all made sense.

She had no kinship with Raoul. She considered him a hindrance to her road of recovery, and why not? He hadn't helped her, except in a last- moment drive of panic born from ignorance. She couldn't help but have let it cross her mind that without her ingenuity, without the sheer luck of having her letter reach him, he would never have known what became of her. He'd gone a decade without one attempt to see her life. She could have died alone in the asylum or on her own bedroom floor; internally hemorrhaging from her own father molesting her. Raoul would have been none the wiser!

I cursed the stupid boy as I looked at her, lying helpless and mangled on the bed. Her black hair spread out like a fan, tendrils of night bleeding onto white satin. She looked wan; her pallor spoke of the grave. I couldn't understand how such beauty came to such ruin, or how I had the fortune of protecting her. She'd been alone her entire life, just as I had. I'd be damned to allow her to end up like me, and I would be damned if Raoul de Chagny did not find out this night how much she had endured in his slovenly care.

I walked the entire way to the de Chagny townhouse, my mind a seething mass of anger. I had only the barest hold over myself. I feared a servant would answer the door and tell me the royal family was asleep, for I would lose my last bit of control. I pounded violently upon the oak. A bare minute passed and the latch released. Raoul greeted me with sleepy eyes, but upon realizing my identity, stepped back.

"What is it? Is Celeste...?"

"Come with me." I ordered coldly. "Leave Christine here."

As I knew he would, the Vicomte walked out into the night behind me.
- 12
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- 14
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Rossignol