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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
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Chapter 26: A Dark Discovery

A/N: My dearest readers, please forgive me. I have been so busy with school that I have neglected this story. However, now that it is Christmas break, I have an entire month off. Expect more than one update from your woefully irresponsible authoress. This chapter might anger some, but have faith in me!

Please read and review, your feedback is valued and appreciated.

There is an allusion to a classic novel in this chapter, let’s see who can find it – it’s really not difficult to spot!

Big thanks to Banana for polishing what was unpolished prior to making its way into her inbox.

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Paris, 1873

“I have never said it aloud before, but in my heart there has never been any desire greater than to see those two fall in love. They are so much alike; he and she, and I always saw it. It’s in their eyes, the way they look through the person they are speaking to. That far away, ghostly stare that they both possess. They always were remarkably similar in the way they spoke and thought. The differences came later, suffering changes the soul. Surely you know that? She became introspective and sullen, he authoritative and cruel.”

“I have wanted no more than for them to find one another, to absolve each other of the sadness that plagued them both from such a young age. You are too young to see it, Meg. You have not lived long enough to watch people grow up unless you were sprouting up right beside them. But I was a grown woman when I found her, and a teenager when I found him. I watched them apart, and envisioned them together. I had always hoped for them to find one another, but not like this.”

Antoinette Giry looked out of her window at the Parisian streets, just as she did every morning. It was comforting to watch the people below talk and laugh carelessly, common pleasure even, just to see them go about their days as they did in the city that was – and always would be – the very center of her universe. She was one of those people, even though she looked upon them from afar and contemplated their lives like a benevolent guard. Always judging, always seeing, but always caring. She had watched people all of her life, and in time hers had been the hand to push things into place; she was not one to tolerate disarray.

She had pushed her girls to succeed, to move and bend their bodies in ways they never thought possible.

“Express yourself with your body, speak through the dance, talk to the audience with every wave of your arm and rise of your leg.” She had told them over and over, begging them to feel the words of the music and act out its emotions.

Erik had created music, and Christine alone was to bare the burden of giving his words and melodies movement and character. He was a fearsome artist, but she took his demands in stride and gave her flesh and blood to his colourless sketches. It had become clear to Antoinette that those two wayward souls were destined to find one another. The paths in their lives would wind and twist painfully, but she always continued to pray for the days that the torrid terrain they walked would intertwine.

And when it did they created something momentarily beautiful. They took passion, pain, longing, angst, and reluctant affection, composing an emotional abyss of which emerged something overwrought and compelling. Don Juan Triumphant may have ended in tragedy, but it had changed the relatively self-involved city forever. The dark, ugly side of love was witnessed, deeply affecting in its terrifying reality. There had been no actors on stage, but ill-fated lovers waltzing together with a passion too fierce to be contained. But it had erupted, and in that final moment she forever lost hope that her two tortured companions would be able to save each other from themselves.

She blamed him mostly.

As Antoinette continued with her inner contemplation, Meg tapped her long nails against her teacup, the steady clink a musical chime in the soft morning silence“Are we still going to do nothing?” She asked quietly, her eyes on the plain pattern of her skirts as one hand fidgeted with her hair.

Antoinette was silent for a moment, her back to her daughter and her eyes still fixed to the cobblestone streets below. That man below her window, the one purchasing the bread, had he ever witnessed such a dark love turn into tragedy before ultimately pronouncing itself as sin?

She turned slowly, her visage as calm as ever.

“Yes. We will keep their secret, there is nothing else to be done.”

Three years it had been. How do you measure days that have spent with a heavy heart? A heart that ached with the secrets it was forced to keep, and throbbed with fear for those whose secrets it held.

“Meg, women often need confidantes, and sometimes we may find ourselves in the confidence of people whom we love deeply, but differ with on certain terms.” The stern woman turned around stiffly and headed towards the chair that was pulled away from the tiny wooden table. Lowering herself gingerly, she winced at the pain in her left knee. It throbbed briefly in protest as she stretched it out and curled her toes slowly, grimacing as the muscles moved. Her reliance on her cane had increased; she blamed her more sedentary lifestyle.

Meg moved her seat closer to the table to rest her chin on her hand.

“Maman, someone is going to find –“

“No!” Antoinette spoke up sharply. Her posture straightened and her eyes became alert. “No one will hear anything from our lips. Should someone else reveal this secret, so be it. It will not be us; it is not our place to toil where we do not belong. Christine’s marriage does not involve you or I.” Her words were – as always – final.

“What if…” Meg began, “what if Raoul finds out that we have known all along?”

Antoinette was silent for a moment before reaching for her daughter’s hand, clasping it firmly and eyeing her with staunch seriousness.

“If he finds out, we will tell him that it was not our place to speak of his wife’s…” she paused to search for a neutral word “infidelity.”

The word was hardly neutral, Meg thought.

“Do you think she loves him?” Meg questioned, her eyes narrowing with skepticism. Christine told her it was love, and her tangents were often touching and sincere. Yet could any woman love such a wicked creature Was not dark love destined to be ill-fated and short-lived?

“I suppose.” Antoinette looked out the window once more.

“Sometimes I have dreams that involve him bashing his face against a tree in a torrential rainstorm while you try frantically to calm him.” Meg continued wistfully, her soft voice shaking. Antoinette raised one eyebrow and smirked knowingly.

“Well, we can only hope that we do not lose our wayward Christine forever to a child that will encounter horrid tragedy at the hands of her bitter, monstrous father

Antoinette would never admit the truth to the young woman in front of her, but the thought of such an occurrence was never far from her musings. Was truth not often stranger than fiction?

“My dear,” Antoinette began, “novels are not prophecies, and thank God for that.” Antoinette stood, her knee trembling as her weight briefly rested upon it. Tapping her cane against the soft floor, she patted Meg’s hand lightly and walked over to where her cloak hung on the wall.

Another day had dawned and she had things to do besides brood with her fellow conspirator over the torrid life of the two people who would always dictate the course of her thoughts and certainly send her into an early grave. In fact, she had often considered having their names chiseled across her granite tombstone as the cause of her death.

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“Would you like a new settee? This one is wearing very thin, look at the fabric.”

Christine glanced at her husband as he sheepishly ran a hand over the tattering material of an off-white piece of furniture that no longer looked quite so brilliant against the deep lavender of the wall.

“Only if you do, I rarely use it.”

“Guests must find it uninviting.”

“Perhaps, I’ve never asked them, and most know that saying such a thing would be rude.”

“Most of our guests are rude.”

Christine laughed lightly.

“Remember that you said that, not I.”

The only guests were, after all, Raoul’s hostile and pompous relatives. Christine hated how their eyes raked over their home as if expecting filth to seep out of the cracks and crevices and ruin their clothing. The exaggerated sniffles of his aunt were most infuriating; along with her squeaky exclamation that her skin was too sensitive to tolerate dust.

Christine had a mind to shove the woman’s round faceinto the floorboards beneath her bed. She imaginedthere would be plenty of dust there to satisfy the heinous creature’s claims that the house was falling into ruin due to the mistresses inexperience with keeping a “proper” home.

She had also been told more than once that she was too lenient with her staff. She decided to refrain from saying that she and the staff remained silent in the presence of one another. The servants thought her haughty, and she thought them rude. Even the humblest of people are ruled by their judgments, she considered. It seemed all of the lessons that children were taught about respect and tolerance really meant nothing, for time proved that great prejudice was not only accepted, but encouraged. Once a woman of the stage, always a woman of the stage. And a woman of the stage was obviously immune to good taste.

How she hated them, with their judgmental eyes, masked sneers, and cruel whispers. If they loved Raoul, they would have reason to hate her. But they cared very little for him, and they certainly spoke just as harshly of him in his absence as they did her. Gossip entertained simple minds, and minds that become deadened due to a lack of use – or necessity – often seek enjoyment found in tormenting people who are never there to hear their names dragged so maliciously through the mud.

How she hated those who spoke but had little to say.

Oh, if they knew the woman she was. The woman she had become, and the woman she would always be.

The wife of a Vicomte who was also the mistress of a Phantom. Or perhaps Erik was her mistress, or the male equivalent of such?

If Raoul’s family cared for him they would find her abhorrent for deceiving him so well and for so long. But no, they did not care, and they knew nothing. They hated her for being an untitled woman whose veins did not flow with rich, royal blue blood. They hated her torn settee and supposed lack of refinement. They hated her being born a common woman, not for being an unfaithful wife.

“Perhaps…” she thought, “perhaps that is better.”

She sat down at the piano and touched the keys lightly, easing into a soft song that reminded her of him, of the man whom she would be seeing in one week. Seven days until he would appear in the garden, trudging through the thick grass with a smile on his lips and a seductive glimmer in his eye. She envisioned his strong shoulders and long, powerful legs as he moved with smooth ease towards her. It would be night, and the light of the moon and the shadows of the trees would play across the clean, white porcelain of his mask. She would walk slowly towards him, the cool ground tickling her bare feet as she rushed into his waiting arms.

She felt his lips on her own as she kissed him passionately, her hands entwining in hisebony hair as their tongues danced together in a frantic, savage rhythm. Their bodies would press together as he would lift her off her feet and hold her tightly to him. The beat of his heart would pound into her soul as his hands gripped her hips and his mouth grazed her throat. She would moan lightly, a gentle sound of longing that set his blood aflame.

Then they would ride off into the night towards his modest home and make love. Well, they would make love if they were feeling particularly romantic. Sometimes the sex was so fearsome and animalistic that she truly had no name for it. But it was beautiful then too.

“My aunt would love to hear you play at dinner next week.” Raoul’s voice slowly penetrated the red haze of her fantasy.

Raoul. Soft, sweet Raoul. She tried to be good to him when he was home. She enquired about his day, placed soft kisseson his cheeks when he returned home, and spoke candidly to him over dinner about her day. She would often retire to bed before him, and once beneath the silken sheets of their bed she would weep for him.

“This is a lie, we are living a lie…” She would repeat over and over again inside of her mind before drifting off to sleep.

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“Do you ever have days, Philippe, where you do not feel like yourself?” Raoul forced his hand to remain in his lap even as it desperately tried to unleash itself to wave away the cigar smoke that burned his eyes and filled his lungs with its suffocating air.

“Hmm?” Philippe leaned over in his seat and gingerly shook off the ashes of his cigar. Ah, how he loved a cigar after dinner. It was the one thing that made him feel in control of his destiny; he may have been trapped under the constricting bonds of blackmail, but no one could take away his right to relax as a gentleman.

Raoul cleared his throat and leaned forward, his voice lowering, “do you ever feel like you are watching yourself live your life, but you are not really living it at all?” He could feel his face burn with embarrassment as his eyes lowered to stare at the burgundy Oriental rug beneath his leather boots. It had been rather difficult to muster the courage to articulate the strange detachment he had been feeling. He recognized his home, his possessions, and all of the people who he interacted with daily, but he never felt them. Sometimes he simply watched a young man named Raoul de Changy eat, drink, and speak freely without feeling as though it was his mouth moving.

“Sometimes,” he began, “sometimes I feel like nothing is real.”

Philippe frowned thoughtfully, shoulders slumping as his hand rose to his chin as his legs uncrossed. He wanted to sigh, but decided such a course of action would be unwise.

“Reality is a painfully boring thing. Consider yourself fortunate.”

Raoul sighed dejectedly and rose from his seat slowly, much like an old man who has seen better days. Stalking over the window, he drew the blinds harshly, staring out into the darkness. It was the same as it ever was, with trees blowing softly and casting black shadows on the rich grass.. The world outside the window was just as silent and still as the world on the other side.

“Oh, stop the melodrama!” Philippe stood up from his chair and walked to the half-full brandy decanter on the mahogany table opposite the ornate work desk. Mahogany, a gentleman’s wood.

“Philippe, every three weeks we travel to London and pour money into an endeavor that we never wished to finance. We stay in hideous hotels and you entertain hideous women.”

“Entertain hideous women?” Philippe scoffed, “I do not entertain them, it is they who do so with me. And I might add that I have never brought one back.”

“Yes you did, two years ago you brought back that garish looking girl from the brothel!”

“She was not from the brothel, she was standing outside of the opera house.” Philippe poured himself a glass of the thick, amber liquid in the decanter and drained it quickly with due eagerness; musings on philosophy with his young brother required liquor-induced patience.

Raoul waved his hand dismissively, “details! She was a whore, and the room smelled of disease for days!”

“What did I tell you about melodrama?”

“Philippe, I cannot do this anymore.”

“Yes you can.” Philippe pacedacross the room to his brother and grasped his shoulders firmly, “you can because you must, and you must because there are no other options.”

“We could go to the gendarmes –

“No!” Philippe roared before lowering his voice to a savage whisper. “Should we tell them that we have been involved in this scam for three years, and risk having our throats slit in some godforsaken London alleyway after that fished-eyed spawn of Satan gets wind of what we have done?”

“Philippe we cannot –

“Yes we can.” His voice lowered and dulled. “There is too much to lose if we do not. Never underestimate the power of a determined criminal.” Philippe turned his eyes to the window and crossed his arms stiffly.

Raoul lowered his head in resignation. He had to return to London, the rainy city that now only existed as his prison.He would return to the sneers and false laughter of his portly uncle, enduring days of misery in order to preserve his life and his marriage.

And what of his marriage? It was good, as far as he knew. But the woman in his bed, the same woman who sat across from him at dinner and smiled at him while they sat together in the library, often seemed like a stranger to him. Where had Lotte gone?

She was pleasant, but she was cold. Her kisses felt shallow, and her skin always seemed cool. Sometimes he would watch her from the windows when she would walk outside into the garden. She would sit there for hours, seemingly admiring the wonderful world that he had given her. A world that he could never truly be a part of, for he was never home.

And sometimes, sometimes he thought he saw her crying.

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“Can you feel me, can you feel me inside of you?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

“How badly do you want this?”

“Please…”

“Beg for me.”

“Please, Erik…”

“Say it.”

“Please…”

“You know how to ask properly.”

“Erik, Erik please fuck me.”

“I could never deny you anything.”

With a growl he buried himself deep inside of Christine’s hot, wet sex. This was heaven, his body joining with hers in frantic need. He loved the sound of their flesh caressing, rubbing, touching. It was slick, wet, and musical in its own right. Since the dawn of time people had come together in this way, and there was no greater way to fall even more in love with someone than to give them everything you have and more.

She looked glorious before him, splayed across the bed in wanton fashion, on her hands and knees with her thick hair streaming down her sweat-slicked back, covering the slim arms that trembled lightly with the weight of her body and the power of his thrusts.

He loved to watch himself move within her. They were like two wild, insatiable animals when they arrived in a state such as this. He watched her body envelop him as he moved in and out as fast and hard as she wanted.

Spreading her thighs wider, he ran his hands down her arms, pulling her into him as he pushed deeper into her. He could feel the tremendous pounding of her heart as his hands grazed her breasts and moved down to her belly. She arched into him like a catthe graceful movement of her lithe body reminded him of an agile feline.

He lowered her onto her stomach so that he could guide one of her hands to the painfully swollen nub at the apex of her thighs, bringing her to the brink of release. He loved seeing her touch herself, but he found it far easier to coax her into such an action by stimulating her with his fingers atop her own.

With one final wail she came apart beneath him and he marveled at the tremors within her body. Lightly pressing her belly, he waited for the pulsations to fade while awaiting his own release.

It was often like this. For weeks at a time he would not see her. Oh, he could see her if he so chose to. He was willing and very able. Yet he refrained from doing so, because moments like these stemmed from her absence. He never stopped wanting her, for her heart, soul, and body were his. They belonged to him, she belonged to him. He alone could make her wail so beautifully in the throes of ecstasy, and only she ignited his fierce lust. No one but her would do.

He wanted her for his wife, but if history was a teacher, he learned the value of waiting for events to unfold naturally. She may have slept beside that puppy in her rich, opulent home, but that boy never set her on fire the way he did.

That young man would shatter if Erik were able to grasp him. He could so very easily pluck the life right out of his body with a flick of his fingers. The boy had heart, but not power. Never power.

If his Christine loved her husband as deeply as she did him, she would never return to him month after month. She would never cry out in his arms, sleep curled up beside him, or spend hours just talking to him. They spoke at great length about any number of things. Her fears, her guilt, her passion. They argued, they grew angry with one another, and they laughed together. He had never laughed before her, and if she were to leave him forever, he would never laugh again.

And every night, after she had fallen asleep, he would ask if she would ever stay with him forever.

He was always met with the soft sounds of her breathing.

“Would you like to move far away from here, my angel?” He would whisper into her ear as she slept. “We can take all of what we need and leave, no one shall ever have to know what became of the quiet viscountess.” He kissed her shoulder softly and ran his hands though her curls. “We will go anywhere you wish, in our own home so far away. Never again will you have to lie about your comings and goings. You will be near me, with me, and beside me forever, and nothing would ever change that. We could have a world of our own, and no one could take that away from us.”

He would watch the rise and fall of her chest as she moved closer to his body, her lips parting softly as she sighed. Perhaps she could hear him, but never would she answer.

As he drifted off the sleep, he spoke of the new opera that they would create. It would be the story of a dark, passionate affair that ended well for the monster. He promised her that it would take them away, far away, from the tragedy of their past and the confines of their present.

He would often link his fingers with hers and silently beg her to leave with him, some place where they could create something magnificent. Some place where they could immortalize every waking moment spent in the troubled, yet rapturous ecstasy of their union.

Only then would he allow sleep to overcome him, for he never believed in fairy tales, and he certainly was not daft enough to promise anyone a happy ending – least of all himself.

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Christine had spent another three weeks with Erik. It was during those three weeks that she felt as though she were walking on her two feet, free from the shackles that attached themselves to her ankles when she was at home.

The guilt, shame, and anguish seemed to melt away whenever she found herself back in his arms. Of course, their time together was never perfect, and his silent pleading for her to remain with him often ripped at her traitorous heart more viciously than Raoul’s ignorance. It was then that she often thought about what life would be like spent as Erik’s wife. Being his paramour was exciting, if not daunting. He was a complex man, one with a heart of darkness that allowed brilliant white light to shine through with every smile and passionate thought. Yet there were times when she felt as thought she did not know him – that she would never truly know him. His mind was a mystery, and it harbored dark secrets.

Then again, so did hers.

She remembered the moments spent in complete and utter tranquility with her lover. The walks by the river, the banter in the house during the mornings, the nights in the library. Christine remembered the morning several months ago when she had been leaning over the counter rather lazily, only to feel a hand roughly pat her backside. She had let out a squeal and turned to give her assailant an earth-shattering stare, only to be met with a slightly harder slap.

“It’s something too delectable to resist, and you practically beg for it when you lie across my furniture in such a wanton position, my dear.”

“Don’t be such a pig.”

“Well,” he licked her earlobe, “do not entice me.”

Every day was a surprise, good or bad, and the thought of letting him go always grew more and more unbearable with each one.

They set out for her home that afternoon with heavy hearts and silent stares. A week was eternity for them, and solitude was never desirable. They sat in silence in Sofia’s carriage, their minds elsewhere. What the weeks ahead entailed often occupied their thoughts on these journeys. For Christine, the torture of her lies always confronted her at the door of her home. The home that she shared with her husband, who would shortly be returning from his business trip. He took many.

Christine remembered the whispers exchanged amongst noble women at the Populaire. They spoke of unfaithful husbands who inform their wives that work occupies a great deal of their time; while in actuality they are visiting mistresses. No one was ignorant of the infidelity of men – or some women – but still it was hidden, and rightfully so. If Raoul had taken a lover, and she doubted such a thing, she would be…

Indifferent.

Numb.

Uncaring.

Anything but concerned. Such was the truth, and it pained her to acknowledge how far she had fallen away from the principles she once embraced. Every little girl dreamed of a beautiful wedding in a pristine white wedding dress – the ultimate symbol of purity. How she imagine being carried off to a gorgeous canopy bed by her husband, who would look sublimely dashing in his fine black suit. How in love they would be, and how innocent and pure each press of their lips was destined to be.

Now a kiss was anything but innocent, and a wedding was no more than a farce. The spectrum of human emotion went far beyond the realm of ideals.

The abrupt ceasing of the carriage interrupted Christine’s reverie, and her body jolted forward as the horse’s hooves dug into the uneven ground before her abode. Awkwardly she sat and waited for Erik to open the door as she straightened her skirts and pushed her hair off of her shoulders.

“Mademoiselle?” He held out his hand playfully and she took it, her fingers gripping his tightly. He never referred to her as a married woman when in good humor.

Christine looked at the grounds carefully, checking to make sure that they were deserted.

“Let us go around the back.” She gripped Erik’s hand tighter and pulled him beside her as she walked swiftly to the back to the house. Dusk was descending upon them, and the air was becoming cooler. This was Erik’s favourite time of day, those brief hours between light and dark.

She could feel his hand lightly graze her lower back as she moved, and her entire body tingled with warmth. In mere seconds they would be saying goodbye, but for now, every touch was cherished. It was odd how desperate people could become to caress each other when they knew that the opportunity to do so would elude them for weeks thereafter. Desperation compels the body to speak boldly.

“It wont be long until I return,” Christine pressed one hand against Erik’s uncovered cheek as she spoke softly.

“You and I measure time quite differently then, it seems.” He responded gruffly.

“Let’s not dwell on sadness.”

“Ah, but sadness helps us to appreciate the moments when we are at our most joyous.” Erik pressed his lips to hers roughly, his mouth crushing her lips with wild abandon.

And it was then that the sound of their lips moving upon one another’s masked the sound of a brandy glass crashing to the floor as an aghast Philippe de Chagny let the crystal fall from his hand.
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Black Angels