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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
- 17
- 18
- 19
I didn't go back out with Christine, but she seemed to understand I needed time alone. I washed my hair in now cold water, and sat in the spacious bathroom to let it dry at the fire. The pretty diva had given me a box of scented oils and I passed the time smelling my way through them. Amber smelled wonderful, and so did Sandalwood. I found patchouli amongst the offerings and set it aside to put on Erik's robe. I blended a little amber and sandalwood together and daubed it on. The scents calmed me, allowing my mind to drift...

Erik. Erik standing before the door, his bare chest a sculpture of easy, rolling muscle. Water sliding off his long, powerful arms. Flexing, coiling strength contained in the defined cords that ran from shoulder to wrist. Scars as mute testimonials to pain, hundreds of them. Washboard patterned abdominal muscle, the muscle of movement in every range. A trim little waist, black silk pants slung low on his hips. Standing at the fire, steam rising from his alabaster body, golden eyes glowing and following my every step.

Arousal wended its way into my body. I shook, curling myself into a ball to control it. But with the arousal came thoughts.

Life wasn't fair. I'd known this from an early age, but knowing it made it no easier.

"His face looks like a skull Celeste, a living skull."

Poor Erik, to have such talent and for it to be kept silent except for murder.

"The world would have lauded him if only-"

"People are so cruel, and I was no better than anyone else. I was worse in fact."

No Christine, you didn't make it worse for him, I thought. God was the one to smite him. God gave him his supernal voice, his magnificent mind, but he took the one thing that would have made him recognized, surrounded by love and admiration. He took his face. Such cruelty was not what I was taught made a god of good. God, who made us and put us in the Garden to fail. It was a sadistic joke, and Erik had suffered under God's sense of humor like no man before him. With a normal, even plain face, Erik could have ruled the world.

If Eden had been so perfect, why would he allow Satan his own tree in the middle of it?

What was the lesson Erik was supposed to glean from his affliction? That one could not be made of beauty entirely? That humility would bring a wiser use of his voice? Perhaps he was supposed to deduce that all men were equal? Well, he made them equal all right, equal in vulnerability to death. And I couldn't say I would have developed any other way under his circumstances.

It hurt to even think about Erik as a child, learning that he had to keep his face covered or be killed in superstitious fear. People had feared him from the moment he came out from between his mother's legs. He had learned to adjust, as anyone with his brain would have. It made perfect sense.

Erik had no god to pray to, no woman to love, no child to raise, no vocation in which to gain notoriety, and all because he couldn't show his face. Under these circumstances, I might be the angel of death. The dealing of death would be one of the few pleasures left to him.

It amazed me Erik could have even taken me under his wing. What a reach, to take in the sister of the man who had stolen his love. How patiently he had brought me out of myself, how gently he had coaxed the life into my brain. I had a guardian angel of my very own, unconcerned with other mortals and dedicated to my welfare with all attention. How could a man so afflicted, so wronged, build that kind of nobility? He defied his Maker, honored the spilling of blood, yet found it within him to help me.

He thought he wasn't worthy of me? I laughed aloud, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking on it hard for some pain to clear my thoughts. Dear Jesus, Erik thought he wasn't good enough for me?

I scrambled to my feet. The sink cabinet had a hand mirror in it; I'd seen it briefly yesterday while searching for a hairpin. I pawed impatiently through Christine's abandoned beauty aids, furious to find the glass. My fingers curled over the handle. I drew it out and laid it on the sink face down, breathing hard. I knew what I would see. I would see my mother again. Before I could lose my nerve, I picked it up and turned it toward me.

At first I saw only my black hair, then, my eyes. My own eyes frightened me. Mother wasn't living in there. Mother had never held such a look in her life. My anger, my outrage at God, my hate, these were feelings she'd never had cause to foment. In fact, Mother never held any feeling in her eyes, not sadness, not joy, not anything. Her eyes and her mind had been a million miles from touching me, ever and always.

A profound calm swept over me. I put the mirror back; I had no need of it. I wasn't my mother, no matter how much I looked like her. I was Celeste, named for the brilliance of the night sky watching over my birth. I was Celeste, named for the heavens. I could be an angel too it seemed. Wasn't I born for it? But what kind of angel? Erik had taken all the good ones.

The idea made me start laughing again. How apt! I would have to ask him if I could borrow a title! It wasn't fair that he should have them all to himself! Which one would I ask for? I couldn't be the angel of music; I hadn't the talent. I couldn't be the angel of death either, I was quite content to let Erik have that distinction, and he’d earned it. A guardian angel then? Was I fit to be a guardian when I couldn't even look after myself?

I went into my room and turned the covers back on the bed. Never had by place of slumber looked so inviting. I hoped beyond hope I would sleep the night through; I did not want to wander around like a zombie anymore.

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

Tired as I was, I could not fail to hear Celeste's light footstep. I opened my eyes. She stood directly before me, her gaze sweeping over the coffin. I kept still as she turned her attention toward me.

I wasn't wearing my mask!

Celeste reached out and touched my sleeve. Slowly, slowly, she drew her fingers upward to my shoulder, then to my jaw. With the softness of a butterfly's wing she ran her thumb over my lips. Her skin burned mine. She moved on, tracing my occipital bone and forehead. Her face showed no fear, no disgust. Her exploration of my ugliness seemed almost familiar, had the ease of one who knew what to expect.

She pulled her hand away. I exhaled in relief. She was asleep. In my own tired confusion I had thought she visited me fully aware.

I snaked out an arm and grabbed my half-mask off the nightstand. I would have to take her back to bed. Hopefully she would remember none of my accursed face on the morrow. I started to bring the porcelain up but Celeste was leaning in toward me. I stopped, paralyzed with the idea I would wake her with my movements. My heart began to thump wildly as she leaned further and further into my macabre bed. In a daze I watched her come closer, closer to my face. Her lips pressed against my temple, soft and delicate on my thin skin. She lingered there and I breathed in amber and her feminine musk.

Her unconscious seduction unmanned me. As she pulled away I slammed my mask on and reached for her. Not a sound of protest escaped her as I crushed her to my body. Pliant and dreamy, she sighed into my neck. The effort to only hold her made me shake. I thought if I could only hold her awhile, imagine she belonged to me for a few minutes, I could gain control. But she had other ideas.

Her hand found the gap in my shirt and slid inside. I hissed as her nimble little fingers found contact. She stroked my ribs, traced every one inch by torturous inch. I groaned as she circled scars at my waist, her nails scraping against my flesh. She traced my spine as far as she could reach, felt the angle of my shoulder blades, and all the while humming in satisfaction.

The only thing that saved her was my duty. Still holding her, I stepped out of my coffin. I found my absent voice as I set her upright, on her own two feet. Perspiring and twitching, I mastered myself with supreme effort.

"You're out of bed Celeste," I said quietly. "Why do you visit Erik in the dead of night?"

"I wanted to make sure," she said, her voice lilting and lovely in the darkness.

"Make sure? Did you think Erik would not be close by?"

Celeste smiled lazily, not answering. I tried again.

"You know Erik is never far from you, don't you?"

Celeste tilted her head back, exposing her throat and closing her eyes. She looked as if in the throes of ecstasy. I shuddered, barely able to keep from responding to such a sight.

"You have found Erik, and you have made sure, now what will you do?"

A tremor passed through her. Her good hand lifted to her neck and stroked languorously. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted blood. My voice was influencing her differently tonight. Every word I said seemed to bring her to a new height of pleasure. Was I letting my own passion bleed into my tone, or was she simply hearing me the way she wanted? Either way she tortured me. My voice was doing her every good in the world and killing me at the same time.

"I must go back to bed, is that it?" Celeste seemed to pout. "You always take me back to bed Erik."

"You don't belong in mine," I said firmly. "You are alive Celeste; you shouldn't seek out a coffin."

"You are alive too," she pointed out, barely audible. "And I never said I was seeking your coffin."

Her meaning brought heat to every nerve ending I possessed.

"You are asleep my dear, you would never come here otherwise." I held out my hand. "Please, let me take you back to bed before you manage to coax me into something you don't really want."

Celeste eyed me fuzzily. Slowly, she put her hand in mine. "Is there something wrong with me Erik?" Her voice trembled in disappointed pain. I steadied myself against her tone, which by itself had the power to crush my heart.

"No Celeste, there is something wrong with me."

She went willingly. We met Raoul in the hall. He had apparently been watching at least some of our interaction, for his eyes shot daggers toward me as I put Celeste back in her room. I passed him, took down a vial of laudanum from the mantle, and went back. With Celeste dosed and falling fully back to sleep, I returned to the Vicomte. The second I saw him I knew the extent of his wrath.

The man wanted a word with me; it was obvious. His fists were clenched, his arms stiff. Nostrils flaring, he rounded on me. "What was my sister doing in your bedroom monsieur?" he cried, his eyes furious.
- 17
- 18
- 19
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Rossignol