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Stone Eyes Weep	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 2458 -:- 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-Stone Eyes Weep
- 1
Stone Eyes Weep

A/N: I think I can imagine the outrageous disappointment that some of you Black Angels Enthusiasts experienced upon seeing this as opposed to a follow-up to the wretched cliffy that I left you with. I humble myself before you and ask for your forgiveness, for this idea would just not leave me in peace. It’s a dark Leroux-based one-shot, and my first ever exclusively-Gaston story. I need to give the creator a little shout-out, me thinks. Any and all reviews are appreciated.

This hasn’t been beta’d, as I was frantic to post it upon completion. Any and all mistakes are my doing.

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A life changes over the years. Truly, it does. There is first the innocence of childhood, which can either be a horrid time or the most wonderful of times. A child is entirely dependent upon the man and woman who have birthed he or she, and it is such a careless joy to live in a warm home occupied by even warmer people. Oh, how I long to find a way to return to simpler times! Times where others locked the doors at night and peered out of the curtains during the darkest hours, their eyes searching the barren streets for unwanted predators. How I wish that steps other than my own could be heard on the wooden stairs come the moonlight, the silent creaking not of my own restless feet.

I used to dream of Heaven. Now I dare not dream at all. To dream of the past is to awaken and mourn the future as fleeting images of the seaside and a violin escape as though they never existed. To dream of the present is a far worse fate.

What have I become?

It began with a headache. It was a certainly nothing out of the ordinary, people suffer from pains behind their eyes quite frequently. It was a night just like any other, one wrought with silent fear. We did not speak of our trepidation, he and I. We smiled, laughed, and pretended that the world was – for a lack of a better word – perfect. We were together, we were safe, and our fairytale was just beginning.

Others marveled at our fortune, and it was not difficult to understand their wide-eyed fascination. It was something right from the pages of an old and well-loved storybook. The kind that parents read to their children as they fidget as only children can in their soft bed in their quiet homes. The room dances with the flicker of candlelight as a soothing voice tells a story. A simple story, it will be, but a lovely one. Tales of imprisoned women and daring men slaying dragons, witches, and hideous trolls to win the hand of the fair maiden who will certainly perish without him.

I have been saved by a daring man. I have been captured, have I not? Yet there was no victory or celebration within these walls. I am no longer a child, and I no longer believe in happy endings. The mind - it is simply too flawed to embrace happiness. Perhaps “flawed” is incorrect, perhaps I mean to suggest that it is too complex. When we are consumed with happiness we relinquish our better judgment, as we do when we are in love. We cannot feel both love and happiness for all eternity. Forever is simply too long to remain a victim of insanity.

I suppose you would like me to continue with the tale of my headaches? I shall do so, as that is where my story begins.

I will not bore you with details about my home, my marriage, or the trial that I was forced to endure at the hands of a man overcome with the madness of love. But I shall mention that love almost defeated him; it certainly transformed his hardened shell into a puddle of self-loathing and shame. He is several men in one body - some are evil, some are good.

I retired to bed one night with outrageous pain behind my right eye. I was certain that some horrid, sinister creature had crawled into my ear with a steel drum that he wished to pound upon mercilessly. A “pounding headache” is a truth, not an expression. As that deviant, godless little troll played an amateur symphony inside of my skull, I frantically prayed for solace. Sleep, a dead faint, or death by strangulation were all welcomed with earnestness. Raoul brought up cold washcloths and insisted on calling the doctor, but I would have none of it.

I simply laid in bed, breathing harshly as ice-cold droplets of water cascaded down the cloth onto my burning cheeks. I shivered enough to rattle my bones, and I was then attacked by the most savage pain in my back as my muscles screamed for relaxation.

The next morning it was gone. The pain that rendered me an invalid who did nothing but creep slowly into her deathbed faded away. Yet it would not be held at bay for long, and soon the troll returned – and that time he saw fit to bring lightning bolts and thunderclaps.

Did I mention that it was raining outside that night? Oh, it was a fierce storm. Raoul begged for my blessing in regards to the doctor, but I just could not permit him to travel in that weather. He is sick often, did you know? A young man he still is, and his skin and bones look to be as delicate as a little girl’s. You should feel his hands; his palms are softer than lily petals. I certainly do not say that to make fun of him, goodness no! But I must make you understand that the howling winds, frigid air, and crashes of white lightning struck dreadful fear into my heart. My husband has suffered much for me, and his lungs did not need to fill with more water at my expense.

The next morning the storm had subsided and gone off to haunt another poor family and bring unrest to their beds. The troll had departed with it. I went one week without anymore ravaging pain, but fortune is no friend of mine.

That cursed troll returned with a stampeding army, rushing into battle over a very steep hill on horseback. The guns went off, the men screamed in agony, and the brave soldiers fell right into the throbbing recesses of my tortured brain.

I allowed no doctor to see me.

The next morning, I awoke and was not able to see at all. Oh, how I screamed, and screamed, and screamed. My broken eyes wept rivers as I stumbled onto the floor of my boudoir, my nails ripping through the coarse material of our fine Persian carpet. It was a wedding present from Raoul’s aunt, and the one of the loveliest that we received.

I could not believe that it was happening. Surely it was just another nightmare, one that was more terrible and real than any of the others that I had lived through night after night. I prayed that it was not true, and for a few seconds I truly believed that it was not real. It couldn’t be. People suffer from headaches all of the time! You cannot tell me that they do not! How was I to know that this would happen?

How was anyone to know?

I shall not dwell upon predictions, however, for I must concentrate on the fact that people did come to know of my tragedy. The strangest thing about tragedies, however, is how quickly the news of them spreads. A young couple’s elation over the birth of their child does not spread beyond those immediately concerned. A grand victory may be met with overflowing glasses of champagne and joyous shouts across rooms, but a great tragedy travels across oceans and over mountains. It reaches all ears, and it reaches them quickly.

That is how he found us.

Idle gossip, nothing more.

I could hear their whispers, the ones that they exchanged heatedly as they left my home. Mere moments ago they were offering me the utmost sympathy, clasping my cold hands and gently stroking my hair.

Their words were warm and gentle, but they their thoughts were not. They were silently thanking God that it was I who suffered and not they. In moments where we have lost something, we are overwhelmed by debilitating jealously of those who still possess it. Indeed, I was comforted by those who could still see - but since I could not - I hated them.

The whispers of my tragedy reached the ears of one who lived beneath the surface of the earth. Lucifer, you ask? Do not be silly. You know to whom I refer. The man to whom I gave my voice, my soul, and my eternal blessing. I remember everything about him. I can recall the soft sound of his voice, the cold touch his skeletal hands, and the ravaged horror of his face. When I close my eyes I see his lair – the vast lake, the opulent furnishings, the bedroom that he prepared for me. The colours were so rich, so majestic and lovely.

But he also created horrible things. Horrible things beyond your darkest dreams. He tortured people, and he watched them suffer and die with something far worse than glee, or even pride. He watched with a blank expression, as though he were simply observing a mouse have its neck broken in a kitchen by a spry chef.

But he loved. Not humanity, no. But me. He loved me, and I feared him to the very depths of my being. I tried to give him my friendship, but he could not see beyond the haze of his infatuation. He heard my voice and he saw my soul, I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but a dreadful fate.

Where was I? Oh yes.

As the story of my eyesight seeped across borders, a trickle of it fell beneath the Paris Opera House. It fell with a slight plop right into the bony hands of the man who I shall never forget. He followed the trickle above ground and into the streets of Paris before making his way to London. Gossip has a most pungent smell, does it not? Like dogs we must follow it, and sniffing it out can become an obsession.

Now allow me to describe a rather strange dream that I had about the man of whom I speak so carefully.

It began as any other dream, really. Or does one even know how a dream begins? Well, mine have always been the same. I am in bed, silent and still, and a vivid image plays out before my eyes.

In dreams I can still see, and I thank God for that tiny blessing. The room is often dark, and I can see shadows play across the cream-coloured walls as the curtains dance gently in front of the window. This was the last thing I always saw before sleep, but now I saw nothing but blackness. Yet this dream was different. As I slept, I could see the shadows and watch the curtains as they gently swayed.

I could see Raoul as he slept beside me, his breath soft and his body curled into a tight ball. He always slept like that, hugging himself for warmth on cold nights. I could also see – or I thought I saw – someone else. He was standing there, a tall and thin figure of immaculate appearance, his lithe frame darkening my doorway. He was – do excuse the expression – as silent as the grave.

Another nightmare.

He looked rather eerie, standing there in the well-light doorway. He was shrouded in black – a rather demonic colour – and the yell glow surrounding him only made him appear more hellish. He was not born a creature of hell, but not even my feeble offer of friendship could save him from the horrors of the world. He had suffered too much, and he had been alone for far too long.

He walked towards us slowly, and I feigned sleep as best I could. His essence drew nearer and nearer, and I could smell death in the air. His steps were light, almost as light as those of a feline. I could feel each of his steps in my blood, and it pounded with each movement of his body. He was here, again, in my dreams. As if he did not haunt enough of them already.

Knowing that I was dreaming, I remained quiet. I watched him walk over to Raoul, his hands gently shaking as he pulled the covers down around his waist and sighed deeply. What kind of sigh was it, do you wonder? It was one of…relief.

I saw the glint of silver as the dark intruder pulled a dagger out of the inside of his waistcoat. Oh, the horrors that we see in our nightmares! The knife was jagged, and it looked rather foreign. The handle was decorated with an intricate design, and the craftsmanship was superb. An Eastern looking man sat on the ground with his legs crossed one on top of the other as he grasped at a deep red serpent that had wound itself around his throat. The man’s eyes bulged white out of their deep caramel sockets, and his mouth was open – silently screaming.

I saw nothing else, but I felt a thick, warm substance splatter on my cheek. The room was slowly fading to black, and the wind began to howl as it never howled before. If I hadn’t known better, I would almost say that it was weeping. A short, startled gasp met my ears, and I began to lift my head slowly, my hand coming up to wipe the odd liquid that splashed against my face and shoulder.

It was warm, so very warm.

I heard another strangled cry, and more gasps that seemed to evolve into a desperate gurgles. I cried out finally, my arms grasping at the sheets and feeling nothing but warm, seeping fluid. Hot, thick fluid at that. It was coating my fingers, and the more I reached, the more drenched my skin became.

My screams became louder, and I tried so hard to touch Raoul, to pull his body into my arms and see if life still remained in his form.

I never had the chance.

Thin, strong arms picked me up like I was naught but an infant, boneless and feather-light. I struggled frantically, but a cool leather-gloved hand pressed harshly against my mouth, a great contrast to the soothing voice that hushed me incessantly. Everything was black, but my body ached with terror.

“Do not struggle so, my dear,” the dark angel began, “a slice to the throat causes little suffering.”

My cries turned to enraged bellows, but my trembling hands could not bring themselves to beat against his skeletal chest.

He knelt on the floor, his arms still cradling me tightly. I still cried out, my chest heaving so violently that I expected to lose the ability to breath.

“No, no, no, no…” I whispered it over and over again.

Why must it be like this?

“Why do you protest so, Christine?” His finger gently stroked my forehead as his icy breath ticked my nose.

I answered him with a broken sob.

“Do you not know that this a sign? It is, my dear! A most wonderful sign from God. You would not dare question the judgment of your maker, am I right? That would be the greatest blasphemy, and surely you do not want to live with that on your conscience. Oh no, not you.” He voice remained gentle and soft, just as it always was.

Hushing me still, he lay down upon the floor and brought my body with him, his arms crossing possessively across my chest and belly – both of which continued to heave and sob.

“You will love me now,” he said brokenly, “you will love Erik now that you cannot look at him.”

I wept then. Not for myself, and not even for Raoul. I wept for the man who was so brilliant, yet so much blinder than I.

Is it not awful to realize for the second time, that your most horrid nightmare is your most treacherous reality?
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Stone Eyes Weep