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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
- 21
- 22
- 23
Chapter 22: Of Memory and Reflection

A/N: I am very sorry for the lateness in updating. I had a ridiculously busy last few weeks and have been rather preoccupied with bothersome RL concerns. Regardless, I offer my apologies and hope this chapter makes you all happy. R’N R, I love to hear from you!

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The morning came quickly, the sun rising as it does each and every day across the earth, never caring for the trials and sufferings of those who are granted its golden rays. It was truly a morning like any other. The thick black curtains parted slightly to allow bright yellow streaks to creep through the air and land upon the wooden floor. The wind rustled against the glass. The outside world made its squeaks, chirps, and whistles.

Yet the darkness that Erik had come to call his own seemed distant, but not gone. No, it was never wise to abandon caution or embrace ecstasy too swiftly, lest one once again be ravaged by the heartbreak of disappointment. However, this dawn was not one filled with trepidation and bitterness.

In the opera house it was impossible to distinguish night from day when he was swept away by his music. Hours would pass him by and never would he think to eat or sleep; such things were trivialities not worthy of his concern. Surely no one would miss him should his health decline; barely anyone knew that he was a flesh and blood human being.

He was a story, a mere legend used to frighten impressionable girls into obedience. The tale of the vengeful Opera Ghost kept stagehands from entering the cellars alone or at all. The very idea that a malevolent specter was haunting the catacombs kept the superstitious weary. Power is an intoxicating and potent aphrodisiac, and Erik found himself satisfied by the fear that shrouded the opera house like a cloak.

He was never content, but there were days where he was not as angry as was warranted. Some nights he was able to forget the circumstances that kept him an entombed prisoner and simply embrace the world he created.

The Opera Populaire was its own private paradise - colourful, opulent, and brimming with majesty. Erik was the silent ruler, never allowing his subjects to question his authority or reveal him for what he was: a scared, reclusive boy dominating a world that he knew would never welcome him. He hid from them while he commanded them. He feared him while inciting their fright. He hated them because he could not be one of them.

Why could he not be a gentleman like the other well-dressed fops coming and going with hearty laughs and leering eyes? Why could he not have been born with a perfect face? Why could he not stroll about carelessly with a woman on his arm and his eyes on a dancer?

Why could he not be that love-besotted lad who came simply to look upon the singer or dancer whom he fancied himself in love with? When he became a young man he often fantasized that he was one of those charmingly lanky young boys thirsting for a glimpse at the angelic figure who caught his eye and claimed his heart with a simple smile.

He imagined himself finding a woman who would swoon over his roses and love letters. Before Christine came into his life and made him into a madman, he would often watch the patrons with amused detachment, wishing he could be one of them despite his resentment. When he was fifteen he saw a rather skittish and nervous young man playfully accosting an equally playful ballet rat. He would reach out and skim his hand down her shoulder and she would gasp and swat at him with a fan. They bantered back and forth, she calling him a rogue, he calling her a saucy tease.

In his cynicism he would scoff at their pitiful, childish teasing, but in his moments of reflection he knew what truly ate away at his heart was envy. That boy never realized how beautiful, flirtatious teasing could be, and how special it was to receive such playful affection. He hated that boy, and he would have given anything to take his place.

Just when he had resigned himself to a life of solitude under the motherly eye of Antoinette Giry, a child came. She was broken by grief, refusing to accept that she was truly alone in the world. She was a tiny, homely sparrow with broken wings, hobbling along the ground with no chance of taking flight.

In that pitiful creature he saw a bruised and battered boy who had wished for wings more than once. If she wanted them, he would give them to her. He was a hardened young man then, but he still felt a deep sadness for the glassy eyes of a tortured child. Children were so young and ignorant; it was unfair that they learned such things as loneliness, hate, and despair.

When that indistinct, mousy child wished for the angel that her father promised her, he felt compelled to say something, anything. She wanted a friend, and so did he. She was a child, he was a ghost. He thought that perhaps two lonely spirits could comfort one another.

He spoke to her in the chapel very softly, claiming to be the angel who had so long neglected his poor, broken sparrow. Never had he seen such a somber face brighten to the point where it was almost unrecognizable.

The dark chapel was formerly drab and gray, the lights of the candles casting weak glows upon the cold stone. The darkness that coated the little girl like smoke seemed to lift and fade away. The sun shone through the stained glass and the cold child’s face ignited, turning from a cool gray to a sparkling gold in seconds.

She was elated. There was no time for skepticism or confusion. She had asked god for an angel, and an angel had spoken.

He remembered the fear in his heart when she jumped to her feet and looked about wildly, her little feet rushing along the stone as she pressed her tiny nose to the window, looking for a ray of sunshine indicating the presence of something heavenly. Never in his life had he experienced that sort of childish glee. If he could bring that radiant smile to her plump, tear-streaked cheeks, he might have a chance of humanity after all.

And so they spoke.

And then they sang.

He encouraged her to be the greatest she could be, often coaxing her to forget her fears of disappointing the world and her father’s spirit. He told her that if he saw brilliance in her, the world would dare not disagree. He was not lying; no one would dare take away the dreams of that beautiful, sad little girl with the great voice and tiny body. As long as he was living, she would be treated like an angel. They shared a gift, and if he could never express it, he would give it to her.

Their friendship was never perfect; she often becoming annoyed with his demands and he often becoming exhausted with her lack of belief in her genius. He saw in her a talent beyond measure, a voice sent from the heavens above, if there was such a thing. She saw nothing inside of herself but a mediocre chorus girl and struggling dancer.

He had wanted nothing more than to come out of his wet, desolate hiding place, fall at her feet and praise her for being a goddess. He wanted to shower her with compliments and praise and swear to her that if she saw in herself what he saw inside of her she would become a sensation greater than any other.

Yet she was young, and the young are often unsure of themselves and their abilities.

He worked with her more and more over the years, singing with her and taking her voice to new heights with each lesson. Sometimes she would swear his demands were beyond her, but he would simply say that he knew all, and he knew that her capabilities would one day astonish even her. She tried even harder because she trusted him. He was her guidance and light - the teacher who would ensure her great triumphs. She was his protégé, the embodiment of his artistic creation. She was also his friend, if he could call her such. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then one day he saw her at dance practice.

He had never truly watched her dance before, as physical movement, though enjoyable to watch on a somewhat perverse level, had never been his forte. Yet one day, he saw her. Perhaps it was fate that led him to the stage. Perhaps it was simply curiosity. Perhaps boredom.

He did not know. But he went there, and his life was changed.

He had been wandering in the flies, keeping his black-clad form concealed in the dark shadows whilst watching the frantic movements below him. People scampered about, shouting and laughing and carrying things here and there. Long hair twirled, canes tapped the floorboards, and shadows moved along the floor beneath the harsh lights of the stage.

He saw her then, clad in a suggestive scarlet slave girl costume. She was looking somber and troubled, as was her usual countenance. She was talking with Meg Giry, often glancing about the stage and nodding as opposed to speaking. She was such a troubled young woman, only offering a small smile when he would come to her in the chapel.

Yet when she began to move with the music, somewhat awkwardly at times, he noticed that the sparrow had turned into something more elegant and beautiful. She screwed her face into a look of concentration, knitting her brows together and pursing her lips as she moved. Yet her long, graceful arms were bare and moving sensuously about her. Her stomach was firm and taut, flexing with each and every bend. Her breasts pressed against the fabric of her bodice, the outline of her hardened nipples visible beneath the sheer material.

He was horrified.

His fantasy had gone beyond tearfully sharing in her first great triumph as a prima donna. It was no longer about making a small child smile and giving his gift of music to one who would turn it into something beautiful to share with the world.

He wanted his pupil.

He wanted her as his lover.

He watched more as her graceful body moved, her curves fuller and more womanly. He stared at her unruly brown curls and imagined them spread out on his pillow, spilling onto his chest as she clung to him. He imagined those soft, full lips on his own, those doe-eyes staring at him longingly.

He slunk back to his lair like a dog, his expression grim and his gait stiff.

He drew the coldest bath he had ever had, throwing his clothes haphazardly about his lair and punishing his burning body with the icy cold plunge. He sat there, shivering and brooding. His skin seemed to tighten over his muscles as it screamed in silent agony from the torture of slow freezing. His entire body seemed to pucker and shrink, his feet becoming numb within seconds.

He drew off of his mask and wig and held his face in his hands while he trembled. He rubbed the raw skin of his right cheek, the mottled flesh rough beneath his fingers.

I am a monster…
I am a creature…

I am an animal…

He hated himself for being unable to go to her as a suitor. He hated himself for wanting her. He hated himself for knowing that he couldn’t have her.

He hated her for being beautiful and mysterious. He hated her for not knowing that she was singing with a man who was harboring horrid fantasies of her stretched out naked upon his bed while he did unspeakable things to her supple young body.

He hated, he hated, he hated, he hated!

With an animalistic roar he surged up and out of the tub, the icy droplets of water dripping down his body and pooling on the floor below. His entire body was numb and every muscle ached. He did not bother to grab his robe or a towel, but rather fought the dread in his stomach and stepped towards one of his velvet-covered mirrors.

Sweeping back the curtain, he looked at himself. He was ugly, deformed, and naked. He was pitiful, hideous - a creature worthy of scorn and contempt.

No woman would want his face pressed against her own. She would not want his clumsy hands all over her body; his heavy frame perched awkwardly on top of her own. This was who he truly was. Without the cover of dark clothing and his porcelain mask, he was no more than an awkward, clumsy, naked man.

He had thinning hair on the right side of his scalp and a ravaged, hideous cheek. He was tall, scarred, and hairy.

Women moved their bodies with grace and agility. Their nudity inspired great painters; many saw the body of a woman as art. His nudity inspired in him nothing but embarrassment. He hated his face, his scar-ridden back, his hairy chest and stomach, his limp, dangling manhood, his furry legs. He was disgusted with himself. Surely she would be even more repulsed.

Men did not look like mythical creatures while nude. Women loved them for what he could only see as their pocketbooks and charm. A nude woman had the power to take the breath from a man’s body. A nude man most likely inspired giggles and smirks in girls and women all across the world. A man could be handsome and built like a warrior, but when he was naked, he was still hard, hairy, and in possession of an awkward, dangling appendage. Women were smooth, trim, and graceful.

There was good reason why male dancers were not squeezing themselves into revealing, sheer costumes.

They would have looked comically ridiculous.

And they at least had faces.

No, his little sparrow could never take him as her lover. He was not handsome. And he was certainly not charming.

With that, he put her aside. He decided that their lessons would become infrequent and short. There would be no idle chitchat or superfluous banter.

He swore to himself.

That very night they sang together and he watched her long after he claimed to have disappeared. He followed her to her chambers, staring through the mirror as she stripped to her chemise and laid upon her bed in thoughtful reflection. He had tried to make out the shape of her breasts through the thin material and hoped against hope for her to briefly part her thighs so that he may gorge himself on a glimpse of her lacy drawers.

Like a lecherous pig he slunk away from her and returned to his lair, only to furiously sketch his memory of her lying upon the crisp white linen of her tiny sheets. The brown walls that surrounded her he imitated to perfection, along with the shadows of the moon that splayed across her porcelain skin.

He drew her delicate hands, one arm resting above her head and the other lying by her side. He grew hard as he got to the outline of her tiny breasts, covered demurely by her chestnut curls. He drew her slim hips and bent knees.

His face turned redder and his body grew harder as he decided to leave his creation unclothed, imagining what she would look like had she been waiting for him instead of lying in bed alone.

He was nearly panting when he completed his fantasy drawing. She was lying on her bed as naked as the day she was born, her body open and waiting for his ugly, hideous form to materialize before her.

He realized with horror that he made her expression one of abject terror.

He opened his pants and brought himself shameful release, and then he wept for the treasure that would never be his.

The days went by as they always did, and with each rising and setting of the sun he fell more and more in love with her. He loved the way she smiled when she was amused, the lilting sound of her laughter when she spoke, the exasperated stares she would give Carlotta on days where the diva could not be appeased.

He loved the way she sang with all her heart and soul.

He loved the way she bantered gaily with her friends when her moods were bright.

He loved the dreamy stare in her eyes when she was deep in thought.

He loved her so much it ached.

He knew if he did not earn her love in return, he would surely perish.

His every waking moment was consumed by her. Her scent, her voice, her laugh, her walk. All of it was perfection.

And that was when the love turned into something dark and dangerous. Something insatiable and more powerful than he had ever imagined. He was a slave to his obsession, and he had lost her.

Now, fate, which had been so cruel to him in the past, was seemingly giving him a second chance. His angel was in his arms, and she knew him as no more than a broken, lonely man who had fallen hopelessly in love her.

She no longer called him her angel, nor did she shyly ask him for guidance when she was unsure of the heights to which her voice could carry her. No longer was he her teacher who longed to be her lover.

He was her lover.

It seemed unreal, as though one such as he did not deserve such a gift. He had murdered, stalked, and forced her to choose between the death of a lover on her conscience, or a life of forced solitude with a man who hated himself more than he could ever hate her bothersome, pesky fiancé.

When he began to unravel at the sight of her, he imagined a gorgeous white wedding and a blushing bride. He imagined being taken from his private hell and lifted up to the sunlight. They would purchase a home in Paris and walk together on Sundays. They would go to the market together and live as a husband and wife should. He would always be reclusive and dark, but she would bring light into his dower existence with every touch, laugh, and smile.

He thought that the land of the living would welcome him once he had such a beautiful, innocent, perfect creature in his arms. She would never know depravity or pain while she was with him. He swore to himself that he would give her the world and protect her from all that was unpleasant.

He never realized that it would be him who she would need to be protected from. He never thought that he would become the darkness from which she tried to escape. He did not realize that in order to win her love, he would need to force her to remain in that dark tomb of despair until she came to love him, or hate him to point of passivity.

He never knew the heart-wrenching sadness that would occur.

And he never knew the joy that could be had when past mistakes were erased with tender touches and intimate kisses.

Even if his angel were to be ripped away from him in a moment, he felt as though he had been given a second chance when he least deserved it.

He knew that he loved her before. The moment he saw her a woman - a beautiful, sensuous woman - that she would forever be in possession of his shallow, embittered heart. He fought for her, he cried for her, he silently begged fate to make her love him. When he knew that he had driven her away from him, he simply confessed his love brokenly

Even if she hated him for all that he was and all that he had become, he had to tell her somehow that he never meant to hurt her, that he only wished to make her his.

She gave him the ring, a simple, sad gesture. A gesture of rejection of sorts, but also a memento. She had given him a tangible memory and, in a way, she had given him her blessing. She had told him she did not hate him.

He told her he loved her.

She said nothing.

The Phantom would have gripped her around the waist and refused to release her. Erik sadly let her go, and he had lost her. He was not going to force her to be unhappy with him in his cavernous lair of eternal darkness.

But he never truly her let go, for she was now there with him, sleeping in his arms, her breath even and soft.

How had he come so far?

How had his fantastical plan to approach her in her home and persuade her to stay with him turned into this?

Perhaps he knew that it would. Perhaps he only wished it. Perhaps he never knew what he was doing, or even why. Yet none of that mattered anymore, at least not at that moment in time.

She stirred gently in her sleep, a sigh escaping her lips. He saw no need to awaken her, or even pry himself from the soft covers. Today was the one day he would allow himself peace, the same peace enjoyed by any normal man and woman who saw fit to love another and spend the rest of the morning basking in the afterglow.

He curled around her, his arm wrapping protectively about her waist. He sighed into her hair, inhaling the rich lavender scent.

They could spare a few more hours.

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Meg did not expect to see her mother when she awoke. Antoinette Giry was not a woman who sat in idle laziness, no matter how early the hour.

Years of waking each and every morning with an extensive list of tasks and duties had made boredom her enemy. When there was always something with which to occupy the body, the mind remained appeased.

The clamor of the opera house occupied her during her most troubled hours - hours that were consumed by worry for the strange, fading man who lived beneath the opera house. She had done one of the greatest, most courageous deeds of her life when she rescued a poor, whipped boy from the cruel hands of sadistic master. She saw injustice in its greatest form, and she could not stomach the anger that began to tear at her heart.

She could not simply stand by and laugh at the child in the cage. Nor could she seek amusement in staring at his disfigured, malformed face. He had done nothing to deserve such a fate, and she felt her frightened soul leap with joy upon seeing that vile Gypsy fall to ground after that tortured boy strangled him without mercy or remorse.

A small justice to the world. A most deserved vengeance.

Little did she know that she would be paying for her nobility until her dying day. She never regretted saving Erik, but she regretted not forcing him to get over his childish bitterness and make a place for himself in a world that would dearly benefit from his brilliance.

She could never understand his fears or his pain, and so she left him to rot in that hell of his own making.

Meg cleared her throat once, the sound soft and quiet. They had not spoken much in the past week, often coming and going with simple farewells and returning with not much more than a nod.

The icy silence had faded into despair. They were never more at odds.

Every morning Meg would hear her mother’s heels clicking on the floor as she rustled about with her cloak and reticule before leaving to do whatever it was one did when they were living with another person who might as well have been a stranger.

Even on the warmest and brightest of days, the sky would seem cold and gray.

Meg had grown tired of it. Antoinette had simply been patient.

“Have you nowhere to go today, mother?”

She said “mother” with such detached coldness that Antoinette wanted to cry. She, of course, did not cry. Petty expressions of emotion seldom won one credibility or success. A pretty young flower could weep prettily for the attention of an opportunistic suitor. An aged, strict, practical ballet mistress chastised, reasoned, and discussed.

Besides, tears made others uncomfortable. They spoke of instability and brokenness. They incited pity and empty words of comfort. There was always time for tears when one was alone. She was not alone now.

“Not at the moment, no. Sit.” She pulled out the chair across from her and patted the wooden seat. It was not a demand, but rather a suggestion. It was one she expected to be taken to heart.

She was correct. In fact, she was rarely wrong. Rarely did ‘not necessarily’ mean never.

Meg wrapped her cream-coloured dressing gown tight around her body and sat down, her slim frame shivering in the coolness of the morning. The apartment walls were rather thin, the papery plaster never allowing much protection from the chill. There were muffled voices above their heads and below their feet. Husbands and wives were bidding each other good day as they came and went. Footsteps and horse hooves had begun to pound the cobblestones outside, but they were still few and far between. Once noon came about, the streets would come roaring to life.

“Cold?” Antoinette asked.

“It’s always cold in here.”

Antoinette nodded in agreement.

“Perhaps we should go shopping for warmer linens and clothing come September.”

It was Meg’s turn to nod in agreement. At least making indefinite plans offered the hope that the black, smoky air that suffocated them would be somewhat clear someday.

“I would like that.”

More silence. Meg played with the sash of her robe while Antoinette stroked the rim of her teacup thoughtfully. Both looked out the window, their hands resting beneath their chins.

“I think you have some things to say, Meg.” Antoinette looked at her then, her eyes capturing those of her daughter.

“I don’t know what to say. If I did I would have said it by now.”

“I can be a very patient woman when I must.” Antoinette sighed and sat back. She let her steel spine dissolve slightly. If she was going to be sitting for a while, she might as well make herself as comfortable as a wooden chair would allow.

“I want to know…” Meg stopped and cleared her throat before becoming silent.

“Continue.”

“I want to know why you are letting this happen.” Meg swept her hair from her eyes, roughly pulling it behind her ears.

“Letting what happen, dear?”

Antoinette knew, but she would rather pry than assume.

“Letting Christine do this to herself. To her husband. To everyone.”

“It is her choice, Meg…”

“No! That’s not good enough! I know that it is her choice,” she bit out sardonically, “but I want to know why she would make such a choice.”

“Meg, sometimes it is impossible to know why people make certain decisions. We simply must accept that it is their right.”

“And their funeral,” Meg said coldly.

Antoinette’s first instinct was to scoff and demand that her daughter refrain from such morbidity, yet under the circumstances, the cruel cliché was warranted.

“Who are you angry with? Christine or me?”

“Both,” she said thoughtfully. “I am angry with Christine for throwing away a life so longed for by so many opera girls. I am angry with her for running in fear from the same man whom she is quick to run back to the moment her husband slips out the door. How dare she cry and moan about how much he frightens her? How did she dare sit in the chapel before that garish, salacious play and cry to Raoul about how she was going to be taken away from him? How does she saunter back to that ‘deranged, murderous madman’ and claim that it’s love? Who is she to demand a handsome man come save her, only run back into the open arms of the captor? Mother! It doesn’t make any sense, it hurts my head just thinking about it!”

Meg was nearly hysterical, her voice raised and shrill. Antoinette shushed her harshly, motioning for her to lower her voice.

“Meg, sometimes people are afraid to admit that they want something because it is wrong to want it,” Antoinette reasoned softly.

“If wanting it is so wrong, then surely there is a reason for it to be so.”

“Of course, but sometimes it hurts more to deny that need, that want.”

“It hurts one to deny themselves a nice new coat. It hurts everyone to leave one’s husband for a murderer who burned down the home of all who she knew, loved, and cared about.”

“Meg, I’m not saying that you are wrong, you most certainly are not. I am saying that unless you are Christine, you cannot truly understand why she is doing what she is…doing.” Antoinette sipped her tea. It was cold.

“Why do you support this…this madness?”

“Because I love them both and they deserve to test the waters that have been wetting them for long.”

“You cannot love a monster.”

Antoinette froze and brought her cup back to her saucer very slowly, her eyes turning icy and cold

“If people like you did not call him that, he would not have become the man he became.”

“If he did not behave like one no one would have called him that,” Meg reasoned petulantly.

“He was beaten and caged in a freak show when he was ten years old. Did you know that, Meg?”

Meg did not respond, but rather looked at her hands and sighed.

“When I found him, he was put on display for all to see. They were jeering and laughing, throwing half-eaten food into his cage. They called him the most horrible names, accused him of being a bastard sired by Satan. A Gypsy had him caged and clubbed over and over again until he would show his face. Surely a child cannot be a monster unless the world makes him that way.”

Meg’s eyes went dark with reflection. Her mother’s revelation was horrifying; the thought of any child or subjugated human being suffering such inhumane treatment made her shudder. For a brief moment, she shared in her mother’s indignation.

She straightened her shoulders and sat upwards.

“He certainly did not become a saint.”

“No.” Antoinette began. “He did not.”

“I am sorry…” Meg paused for a moment. “I am sorry that he was born looking the way he did, but he hurt people, and he used their fear to steal from them, too. Why must you and Christine make him into such a martyr?”

“Not all martyrs are as pure as Christ himself, Meg.”

Meg laughed. “They most certainly are not, if our Phantom qualifies as one.”

“I think he deserves a healthy mix of condemnation and compassion.” Antoinette reached for her daughter’s hand and squeezed it gently.

“But why does Christine want him? She is not simply his friend, she must be…she must be his…lover.” Meg lowered her eyes modestly; such things were not spoken of so explicitly between family members.

“Sometimes a woman needs a lover who challenges her and makes her question who she is and what she wants.”

“I see.” She didn’t.

“And sometimes….” Antoinette stiffened, not sure whether or not it would unwise to embark on such torrid territory with her only child, but knowing it was necessary, “sometimes fear can be very…exciting.”

“Oh.” Meg pursed her lips and nodded. It made sense. Somewhat. All of the girls spoke in hushed tones about the Opera Ghost. Many cautioned others to be careful of walking alone in the corridors, lest the Opera Ghost come out and ravish them where they stood. There was always a queer element of erotic fantasy to the warnings, and they were always accompanied by nervous giggles and naughty grins.

“But maman! Christine is married, that makes it even more sordid!”

“I know that love, I hear you loud and clear.”

“But we shan’t say anything, I assume.”

“Never.” Antoinette was as still as a stone, her fierce dedication to her wayward, wandering adopted children never wavering.

“What of the Vicomte?” Meg asked warily.

“Christine shall deal with him.”

“Will she?” Meg asked.

“If she wants to be a woman with two hearts and two men at her beck and call, she will grow into the role in time. She will learn to protect herself and her lover, and she will answer to herself long before she answers to her husband. In time she will decide to whom her loyalties lie, and she will decide her own fate.”

“And what if her lover wishes to decide for her?”

Antoinette laughed, “Then she will have to show her true strength and quality.”

“How?”

“She will let those men know who she chooses, and she shall be direct and certain.”

“She needs some of your strength, maman.”

“She will have it someday dear, living the life she is leading. God knows that she will need it.”
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Black Angels