Nightingale
Disclaimer: I own nothing that does not reside in my own imagination . . . Gaston Leroux created the tale of the Phantom Of The Opera. Many writers have taken that tale and given a piece of themselves to it, I merely do the same. The novel which I quote from is "Phantom" written by Susan Kay.
Premise: In Susan Kay's novel "Phantom" Erik tells Christine the story of the Rose who loved a Nightingale. Kay tells us that Christine went to bed after the story. I'd like to believe something else may have happened, which would have changed the whole story. This is merely my run-away imagination, the result of nights of no sleep.
This story is SHORT, and I do mean SHORT! I don't know if I ever intend to continue on with it or leave it as is, I suppose that will depend entirely on my muse. Did I mention that she is a very fickle creature?
Feedback: Yes, please! Any and all feedback from constructive criticism to high praise accepted. Flames? I have hotdogs, marshmallows, and sticks ready.
An E/C vignette, no Fop included.
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. . .and then, tonight, an old minstrel song that made me close my eyes on tears . . . the story of the white rose who loved a nightingale against the will of Allah.
"Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him . . ."
"Flower and bird, two species never meant to mate. Yet at length, the rose overcame her fear and from that single forbidden union was born the red rose that Allah never meant the world to know."
Christine sat at Erik's feet, staring into the fire, and contemplating the story Erik had just finished.
The thought had occurred to her before that Erik might possibly be in love with her, but she'd dismissed it time and time again. Now, however, she could deny her instincts no longer. He was asking her a question with this particular story, but would she have the courage to answer.
The flames danced before her . . . flames, and her mind enclosed on to the thought. Flames meant passion, burning, consuming . . . the way his voice consumed her when they sang together. The flames were as hypnotic visually as his voice was audibly. Both were inescapable forces, drawing her within herself more and more. And every time she came down here, it was harder to go back.
Christine sighed softly, a sad sigh as she pondered her own wishes. How she wished that she would dare to take off the mask and show him that his past meant nothing to her, that his face did not change what she'd felt inside from the moment that he'd first sung to her through the mirror. There had been a time she had wanted her Angel of Music to come and take her from the earthly world . . . well, now he had.
A love that Allah never meant to be. A love that transcended all things holy to her religion. He was a murderer and a thief, and yet . . . there was so much more there inside, if only she dared to reach out and . . . touch him.
'Just touch him, Christine. It may not be telling him everything, but it's a step. If you can touch him, perhaps you can bring yourself to prove to him that what he feels is not unrequited.'
And then she heard Erik sigh and finally break the spell of the silence. "It's getting late, my dear."
Christine looked up at him inquisitively, trying to read his expression through the mask. 'Can it be that he sense my hesitation, and is trying to give me a way out? How much longer can we allow this opera play out before someone is hurt?'
They both rose, and Christine drew in a deep breath, trying to steel up her courage. "Erik?"
"Yes, Christine?"
"That . . . that was a beautiful story. Where did you learn it?"
"Oh, well," Erik paused, "A friend taught it to me a long time ago."
Christine smiled softly as she moved closer to him, close enough that they were almost touching. "It was truly exquisite."
She heard his sharp intake of breath as she slowly closed the distance between them, and gently brushed his hand with hers, her eyes following the movement. For a moment, silence reigned again, and then, in a whisper, she said, "I wonder if I could have been as brave as the rose."
She could see Erik was holding his breath now. "I think that, if it were meant to be, that you could. The rose finally came to understand that we can't choose where we love."
Christine looked up and allowed her eyes to finally meet his, and in his eyes saw the faint glimmer of hope that lay within, and knew without a doubt that when he spoke of the nightingale, he was speaking of himself. She slowly drew her hand away from where it had become entwined with his without her noticing, and raised it to his face where it gently stroked the mask over his cheek. Without him noticing, she undid the mask and it fluttered to the floor between them. Face to naked face they now stood, two swimmers on opposing precipices, each frozen from making that final plunge, and then Erik moved his own hand to her face in wonder, the tears now streaming from his eyes.
Christine took the final step and closed the last inch of space between them. Now with nothing to separate them, she drew her other hand to his face and brought it down so that his lips could meet her own.
It seemed an eternity encompassed in just more than a minute when they finally both pulled back, the wonderment shining in both their eyes, and realization slammed into Christine as Erik spoke.
"Christine," he whispered, her name sounding like a prayer.
"Erik," she answered reverently.
"Christine I love you."
Christine smiled as she replied, "And I love you."
Erik dropped his head and claimed her lips once more as time stood still for them both.
Finit