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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
- 2
- 3
- 4
Tearing my gaze from Erik, I observed the room. My first impression was of coziness and warm comfort. A tan leather couch and stone coffee table sat to one side before a well laid fire. The fireplace itself, a gray stone structure, took up a quarter of one wall. Beside it stood a massive set of bookshelves, all filled. Persian tapestries decorated the other three walls; their matching rugs lay out on the stone floor underneath us. A violin lay in its open case on a wing chair, away from the heat of the fire. The odor of tea and incense wafted about lazily, and after a moment I spied a brass censer hanging from a distant corner.

"Please be seated." Erik's voice did not seem nearly so imperious now. He hung his hat and long cloak on a hanger by the doorway, turning to face us with languid grace. Around the white mask a frame of black, well kept hair appeared. His eyes did not seem to glow now, but they were no less a startling shade of yellow. Wolf’s eyes, I thought distantly.

"Oh, please forgive me," he said smoothly, reaching out both his hands. His voice held no emotion now, not even anger. "I'll take your coats unless you feel cold." Raoul and Christine acquiesced, and after a moment I followed suit. I struggled with the use of only one hand, and my brother came to my aid.

"Monsieur, this is my sister, Celeste," Raoul said as he divested me of the hateful cloak. "Celeste, this is..." he hesitated, and then smiled strangely. "This is Maestro Erik." he stepped back, looking apprehensive as Erik came forward. "My sister is the reason we are here."

Erik bowed to me elegantly. "Mademoiselle de Chagny," he greeted, his eyes wandering to my bound up arm. "You are injured."

I nodded, not knowing what else to do.

"Unfortunately she is not a de Chagny Monsieur, her last name is Lescot,” Raoul corrected, growling softly. "I hope to remedy that very soon. Christine and I brought her here in the hopes of finding a safe place for her to stay while I go about making her a free woman. We did not know you were still alive or we would not have intruded."

"How did you become injured Madame Lescot?" Erik asked, keeping his eyes upon me and ignoring Raoul. I quivered inside, wanting to answer him. He compelled me to answer him! My mouth opened and closed uselessly.

"Celeste does not speak Monsieur; she has been mute from birth." Raoul took me by my good arm, propelling me away from Erik to seat me beside Christine. "I do not know how she came to have a broken arm; we have not had time for her to write any answers."

"Erik, we thought you were dead," Christine spoke up, "The Epoch said-"

"Yes, the Epoch," Erik interrupted, though not harshly. He looked ceilingward for a moment before bringing his eyes back down to us. "Emil thought I should have a little privacy and I did not argue with him. But we can discuss this later, I would like to see Madame Lescot's arm." He came to me and I scooted forward on the couch to let him take a look. Something in his manner made me believe he was well versed in medicine.

"You wanted your sister in the opera cellar Vicomte?" he said suddenly, addressing Raoul but looking into my eyes. I couldn't suppress a quiver as he ran an experimental finger over my arm. His fingers were cool and light, but I'd never felt a touch so mindful of my flesh. "You must be desperate for her safety to bring her here," he continued. He found the break as he spoke, still keeping my eyes. "This has to be moved Madame, the bones are not meeting." Again I opened my mouth, and again nothing came out, but he understood me. "I see you knew that already," Erik said, finally releasing both my arm and my eyes.

"Now that I know you are here monsieur, I will not burden you with my family." Raoul said with a sigh. "I will find some other place for Celeste to stay."

Erik straightened. His eyes began to glow as hotly as they had in the darkness by the lake. "Of course you would not want your sister here with me Vicomte," he spat. "She wouldn't be safe, would she? Who knows what I might do to her?" He strode to the mantle, his long fingers bringing down a small wooden box. "Having her stay with a real ghost is much better than having her stay with the Opera Ghost." His words dripped of venom. "I suppose I must be more dangerous than her husband." He flipped the lid of the box open, ignoring the pregnant silence in the room. "I will at least set her arm monsieur; she cannot go about this way. If very much more time passes the bones will knit crooked and she will never use her arm the right way again."

Erik knelt in front of me, showing me the contents of the case. A needle lay inside, along with several unlabeled vials. "This is morphine Madame," he said quietly, picking up one of the little glass bottles. "I'll give you enough to deaden the pain if you'll permit it. I fear it will still hurt, though it won't be nearly as bad as going without it." He waited for my answer, as did everyone else.

I didn’t want morphine in my system again, but I didn’t see any way around it. I hurt too much already to further burden myself. Slowly, I shook my head yes. I trusted him for some reason, even if my brother and his wife had their doubts. I thought that he smiled, but I could not tell for certain.

I watched him disassemble the syringe. He spared Christine a glance. "Vicomtess de Chagny, be a dear and get a bowl from the kitchen,” he instructed tightly. “Make it a fairly large one," he added as she rose. "Also, I need a clean cloth and a roll of gauze from the master bath." He looked to Raoul, the fire in his eyes dampening just a little. "Don't worry boy, I know what I'm doing." His tone was not unkind. "I won't hurt her."

Raoul ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit from childhood he'd apparently never shed. "Monsieur, it isn't that I think-” He halted, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. "You judge me too harshly, though I suppose I deserve it. It's just...” He stopped, looking to me with a sad sort of guilt before letting his gaze return to the man who crouched in front of my arm. "This is my sister monsieur, my only blood. I would die to protect her. God only knows what Lescot and his madmen have done to her already." He sank down into a chair, a hand over his eyes.

I felt sorry for him, though distantly. If it hadn't been for him and Philippe I would have never been married off to Pierre in the first place. I couldn't stop his conscience from bothering him, nor could I turn back the years.

Whoever this Erik was, he inspired great fear in my brother and Christine. But I couldn’t completely understand that. He’d made it plain he intended to be civil, going so far as to take our coats and bid us welcome. If he was so dangerous why was he trying to fix my arm? And he did have a dangerous aura.

Christine came back with the bowl, cloth, and gauze. She observed us all silently, and incredibly, with a measurable amount of disapproval. "I think perhaps Celeste needs a jacket, some sort of cover. We will have to tear off her dress sleeve you know." She gave Erik the items, moving to me instantly. "I'm sorry dear, I know you must be very tired and very hungry by now, but Erik knows what to do and he won't take long." She eyed the man askance, a contrite expression leaking into her calm. "Do you still have some of my clothes?" she asked quietly.

"Your room is how you left it Madam," Erik replied coolly, throwing the pieces of the syringe into the bowl. The smell of alcohol pervaded the room. "I would have sent you your belongings, but I was dead." He seemed to sigh as he laid the parts on the white cloth. Raoul came between us for just a moment, brandishing a lacey handkerchief.

"Here monsieur, you will also need to sterilize the injection site."

"Thank you."

I hadn't noticed Christine leave, but she must have done so because suddenly she was draping a robe in my lap. "For when it is done," she explained unnecessarily.

Once more I caught Erik's eyes. I read guarded sympathy in their tawny depths. . "Relax madam," he said soothingly, "This will all be over soon." Thinking I could lose myself if I kept contact with those eyes, I laid my head back on the sofa. I felt him clean the inside of my elbow, and moments later the familiar sting particular to a needle. In a bare few moments I was made of lead, the morphine rushing through my veins like molten honey.

Dimly I was aware of Erik giving my brother orders to find something suitable for a splint, and of Christine sitting down beside me. A short conversation ensued, followed by Erik asking me if I was ready. I couldn't nod but I opened my eyes and closed them again. A short sharp pain brought tears up, but it died soon. My arm was wrapped in gauze and splints and Christine's soft hands covered me with the warm and heavy robe.

"She cannot go anywhere at the moment Vicomte, so relax and wait."

"I can see that monsieur."

"Raoul, are you so stubborn that you cannot see she needs to stay here, at least a day or two?"

"Celeste has been in an institution for the last ten years Christine; I do not think she has the resistance needed to deal with the rather unique stress monsieur Phantom can inspire." Raoul snapped.

"And she has been jerked all over the world to get her here, she's exhausted!” Christine scowled.

The conversation dampened to mere mumbles. I heard the sound of the stone door swinging open. A blast of cold air hit me, and then stopped as the door made its return trip. I struggled to full consciousness, fighting the morphine.

Erik stood at the wall, his hands pressed to the stone, his head bowed. He must have felt me looking at him, for he turned to me. We spent a long moment looking at each other. His eyes were sad, angry, despairing, and determined by turns. Very slowly, I began to smile. I felt my lips stretching and could hardly believe it. It had been years since I smiled. When he laughed lightly, I grinned.

"You aren't nearly as comatose as your brother believes, are you?" he asked, throwing himself down into a chair opposite me. "I suppose he must be smothering you a little." He drew a folded up sheet of staff paper and a pencil from an inner vest pocket, placing it on the table between us. "Is there anything you need right now, or are you simply going to float with the morphine awhile?"

My heart lurched at this bit of considerate kindness. Erik was not like my family or anyone else I knew. He was not going to take for granted that my being mute made me weak headed as well. I leaned forward and took the pencil.

I require nothing monsieur Erik, I wrote quickly, but thank you for asking. He had leaned over to watch me write, and nodded as I finished.

"Would you mind hearing a little music then madam?"

I shook my head.

"Wonderful. Any requests?"

Do you write music? I wrote, thinking of the very paper I now scribbled on.

"Yes, I do."

Play something of yours, something sad.

"You want to cry?" Erik leaned forward a little more, his eyes piercing the narcotic veil over my eyes. "Your brother might be upset if I comply with your wishes."

You aren’t afraid of my brother and neither am I.

Erik laughed again, a rich sound of pure pleasure. "Indeed madam, then we may do as we please."

I smiled again, nodding.

Erik rose gracefully, snatching the violin off the wing chair. I watched him carefully, fascinated. From applying rosin to the bow, to making finite adjustments to the tuning screws, every movement he made was pure grace. He raised his instrument and began to play.

The song Erik coaxed from that bit of wood and string brought tears to my eyes almost immediately. Up and down the bow scraped, each pass bringing exquisite sadness, longing, even misery. It was as if the thoughts I’d carefully put aside during my stay in the asylum had been put to music. I let myself cry, using the music as my release. In a way it felt good, felt liberating to let another give my agony a voice. If nothing else I felt better simply for the knowledge that at least this man knew what my pain was, for no one could write such torture without having come face to face with it. When he stopped I gave a long, shuddering sigh. My soul felt lighter than it had in years.

"You needed to cry, didn't you?" Erik said gently, putting down the violin. "It wasn't a matter of just wanting it." I nodded. "Do you want more?" he asked. Again I nodded.

Once more he played, and once more I wept. By the end I felt as wrung out as a dishrag. Erik loosened his bowstrings, wiped off his instrument, and carefully packed everything away. "Enough misery for now madam," he intoned solemnly. "Too much at once can be harmful. I would not have the Vicomte come back to find his sister in ruins, no matter if we fear him or not."

It is enough monsieur, I wrote shakily. I have not been allowed to cry.

"You did not cry in front of your brother," Erik surmised, sitting across from me again.

Raoul cannot take my tears. Thank you for offering me your home; I am a danger to Raoul and Christine.

"What would your husband do if he found you madam?"

I hesitated. How much should I burden this already more than generous man?

He would kill me.

"He had you committed to an insane asylum so he could have your wealth?” Erik guessed correctly. “Now that you have escaped him, he will go to drastic lengths for revenge."

Yes.

"How will the Vicomte win your divorce do you think?" Erik picked up a brass poker from the hearth and stoked the fire. The shadow of his lean, angular body leaped and danced on the back wall. "If you have been Lescot's property for so long, what grounds can be claimed?"

Raoul hopes for an annulment, as Pierre had me committed the moment we touched American soil. Failing that, it is not beyond Raoul to make me a widow.

I handed him the paper as I joined him at the fire. Erik's eyes narrowed as he scanned the scrawl, and when he looked back to me I plainly saw anger.

"How old are you madam?" he asked softly. I showed him on my fingers hesitantly. It seemed like only yesterday I had come to this knowledge. Pierre had married me the day after my fifteenth birthday, so I was twenty-five.

"Your family married you to a foreigner at fifteen,” Erik said, his voice tinged in scorn. "Surely the Chaney’s had enough wealth to keep you no matter how long it took for you to find a husband." He let his eyes wander over me in frank assessment and I colored. Somewhat nervously, I took the paper out of his hand.

My brothers and I were all that was left by this time, I wrote. My father died of consumption and my mother of a broken heart. Philippe worried that I would not be cared for if he died, he had a heart condition. Raoul was at war and there was the possibility of his death. Philippe arranged for me to marry Pierre, who was a native Frenchman living in America. Pierre seemed like a good match for me I suppose; he was wealthy from Standard Oil.

I gave him the paper again and watched while he read it. His stance made me feel edgy, and more than a little ashamed for my history. I had been bought and sold like a horse, really, no matter how proper the veil over the transaction.

"I see." Erik's jaw line grew taut. "Even the wealthier born females cannot escape being reduced to property." He gave a short laugh, my paper crumpling in his clenched fist. Somewhat uneasy, I backed a short distance away. Anger radiated off him.

Retreating back to the couch, I leaned against its arm and looked the other way. I couldn't understand Erik's anger; surely I would mean nothing to him. Even if he were sympathetic to females' plight, his ire would be misplaced. Watching him stare sightlessly into the fire, I now understood the unspoken tension lying between my brother and his wife over this man.

I surmised from adding up little bits of conversation that Christine had once been entangled with Erik in some way, perhaps even romantically since she still had a room here two years after some mysterious event led her to think he was dead. She did not specifically come out and say she didn't trust him, and neither did Raoul, but they didn't. They were much happier to think of taking me to live here when they still believed him dead.

But he didn't seem to be overtly threatening. True, there was an air about him that spoke of violence, and his eyes were the eyes of a predator. I could not deny I had moved away from him for just those reasons.

Now that I did not have to hurry I took a good look at Erik. My impression of his height had not changed. He still seemed quite tall. His shoulders were broad though, wide enough to keep his long arms balanced and graceful looking. His tailored suit clung snugly to him, affording me the knowledge of his lean and lanky muscle. His mask intrigued me, but I believed it was best not to think of it. People did not live under opera houses and go masked all the time because of a lark. He was either seriously disfigured, or hiding his identity, or both.

Swallowing my fear, I gripped the pencil in my hand and walked back over to my disquieting host. Very slowly I reached for the nearly ruined piece of paper in his hand. He relinquished it without a murmur, his eyes betraying the fact that he'd forgotten I was even there. I flattened the page against the mantelpiece and began to write.

Monsieur, do you have a place I might lay down? I am worn out.

"Of course madam, please forgive me." Erik blinked and straightened, then favored me with a tiny bow. "I will take you to your sister-in-law's old room, I'm sure you can be comfortable there." He seemed fine now, free of whatever black mood had seized him. I no longer felt the aura of intimidation and threat.

"It may be a trifle dusty," he warned, grabbing an oil lamp off and end table. "I fear I haven't had cause to visit that particular room in a few years." He paused, eyeing me as I fell into step behind him. "But you know that already, don't you?"

I frowned, holding out my hand in a gesture of uncertainty. Before he could start moving again, I turned the gesture into something more complex. I gestured to myself, then to my head, slashed a negative sign, and then pointed to him.

"They've told you nothing?"

I nodded, pointing to his grandfather clock and making another negative slash with my hand.

"You are in the dark then madam, in more ways than one. I shall let your brother color your mind then, if you have no objections."

I raised an eyebrow, communicating my doubt. He chuckled.

"Suffice it to say that I once mistook a morning bird for a nightingale, and when I tried to cage her, I found a peacock in my way." He laughed again, a decidedly unpleasant tinge carrying the sound far into the house. "But that is most assuredly all I will say about the past." He gestured to a door we had drawn abreast of, his movements smooth as silk. "You may consider this your room, for however long your brother remains confident of your safety with me. If I know the Vicomte at all it won't be long before he remembers his fairy tales and whisks you away. If you need anything, feel free to ask, I will be out here in the parlor most of the night." Giving me another of his little bows, Erik glided away.

Feeling surreal and jumbled, I pushed open the door. The room was pitch black, but I found the wall sconces soon enough. I marveled at the modern gas lighting and the bed that was shaped like a boat. It was sorely tempting to just fall directly onto that bed, but I pushed on toward a door on the far wall.

It was a bathroom, and it simply amazed me. Done in light tan and porcelain white, it impressed with understated elegance. The tub, a gigantic claw foot affair, sat in the very center of the room. The toilet and sink were offset to the left, but the toilet itself was surrounded almost entirely by a standing screen. The right hand wall had a fireplace in it, with wood stacked handily to the side.

I filled the tub, refraining from using any of the bubble bath or oils I saw on the shelf above it. It gave me shivers to think of using another woman's cosmetics, and I had never been fond of lilac, rose, or jasmine. I wondered with some interest if Erik had chosen the scents for his songbird or if she herself had brought them. I had no doubt Christine was the morning bird and Raoul was the peacock in his little cryptic tale.

After the ordeal of disrobing and getting myself in the tub, I allowed myself to think on Erik more fully. My host was truly almost too much to handle after years of mind- numbing boredom and captivity. I had a feeling he would have been intense no matter how I came, still.... He had given me a terrible fright out on the lake.

What a voice! When he spoke I could feel his words in my blood, stirring a deeply feminine response within me. It did not take powerful observation for me to know he could entice anyone to obey him; even his simplest, shortest words fascinated me. I did not understand how Raoul and Christine could seem so unaffected by him.

Or were they? Perhaps the tension I felt between the three was born of such painful beauty. Christine was a woman; surely she felt the tugging in her womb I felt when Erik spoke. Surely Raoul suspected it. Such was Erik's power I could feel after effects. My blood still ran hot. My body trembled enough in the tub that I could see the vibrations though I lay perfectly still. Worn to the bone, drugged, and starving, and I'd forgotten it all for the sake of looking deep into those gold, leone orbs. They were hungry, intelligent, and restless, missing nothing and revealing little. I suspected he didn't need me to write for him, he simply knew what I was thinking. All his questions were geared to fine detail, mere formalities in light of all he could see inside me.

I got out of the tub and dried myself hurriedly. I couldn't bear to lay about thinking of my host; I had to sleep. I wriggled into a gown from the wardrobe and collapsed on the boat-bed, too tired to even pull the covers up. Just before I surrendered to sleep, I heard the faint sound of a violin.
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Rossignol