Is There Light?
By: Songwind
Disclaimer- I don't own Phantom of the Opera, in any of its manifestations. Excepting, of course, this fiction here. Oh, and I don't own the first few lyrics- they are from the song "How Glory Goes" from the musical Floyd Collins. However, the rendition of "Angel of Music" is mine.
NOTE- For the rendition of "Angel of Music," Christine's part is in normal font, while Erik's is in italics. Sorry, but the computer won't neaten the document up any further.
Summary- The Persian summons Christine to Erik's bedside before the Phantom's death, against the dying man's original wishes. There, Christine is both tormented and utterly comforted by what she encounters.
Christine couldn't remember a time that the little house beyond the lake had been so quiet.
Granted, the little house had never enjoyed the usual sounds that surrounded the homes of millions of people far above. Shut away from the world, five levels underground, it was shut off from children's laughter and lover's arguments and threats of attack by foreign countries. It feared no spreading fire, no massive rainstorm, no invasion by unwanted intruders.
Yet while the little house had never played host to such things, it was the center of attention for the echoes and sounds that only the earth could make. Water dripping from some unknown location into the murky lake, small rodents and other creatures skittering about unseen. And sometimes, high above, one could hear the music play as the Opera Populaire prepared its performers for the next gala night.
But the Opera Populaire had been closed; no one practiced their notes or their steps now. The only sounds that met Christine's ears were the noises that her feet made on the shore before the little house; everything else, even the incessantly dripping water, had seemed to cease, to hold its breath for something to come.
It was easy to think that she was the only living creature left in the world-
No, you can't think that! she told herself sharply, running her fingers over an extravagant engagement ring for comfort. Don't think that, not here, where the shadows can reach down and into your mind at will…
And besides, she was quite obviously not alone; the Persian, who had only introduced himself to her as the daroga, was waiting at the front door. And of course, beyond that door lay…
She took in a shaky breath as she approached the Persian, shivering at the cool air. She hadn't thought to bring a shawl; it was warm in the world above, in the world she resided. Once again, she hadn't considered how things were down here.
But apparently the Persian had. Without a word, he offered her a shawl and ushered her inside, shutting the door with a soft click. The sound seemed to echo through the rooms as he led her to where a fire was crackling in the hearth.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said quietly.
She nodded. "I… didn't think I would," she responded, just as quietly.
"I'm glad you did, Mademoiselle. It's still Mademoiselle, isn't-"
"Yes."
The Persian nodded.
For a moment, the two stood in silence, staring at the fire. Oh, how loud it seemed in this cavern of darkness! A cavern that had only a month before seemed a cave of wonders…
A sigh from beyond one of the closed doors startled her, and she looked to the Persian for an answer even though she knew there was only one possible person that sound could have been from.
The Persian met her eyes steadily. "He calls for you, sometimes," he said.
She was the first to lower her gaze.
To her surprise, the Persian gently tipped her head back up with the tips of his fingers. "Be warned, Mademoiselle Daae," he said. "He is on death's door even now. He may not recognize you. He did not remember me today."
She felt a sharp pang at those words, though not for herself. The daroga had known Erik for years before the Opera Populaire had even been built, and had saved the man's life before. Erik, or so she'd heard, had returned the favor. Under any normal circumstances, that would have achieved a bond of friendship so strong and fast that no mere mortal could have been able to break it.
But by then it had been too late for Erik to learn how to create and hold such a bond.
"Poor, unhappy Erik," she murmured softly, quoting something she'd heard the Persian say the last time she was here.
"Mademoiselle," he said. "I know this is hard for you, too, but please… after fifty years of nothing but rejection, he deserves to die with a smile on his face. He needs that much."
She stepped back enough to free her face from his fingers. Then she said, "I don't know if he'll smile when he sees me. I've certainly done enough to make every laugh of his falter, every sparkle in his eyes dim."
"If you believe that, then you don't know Erik. When it comes to you, he will forgive you anything. Did he not send you away with your fiancé?"
She sighed. "He did."
"Go, Mademoiselle. He needs you."
Slowly, she nodded once. Then she turned and walked towards the door from which the sigh had come.
Her breath caught in her throat as she heard a voice; soft, weak, but still firm enough to hold a tune.
To do more than hold a tune, she thought. I have forgotten the true power of his voice…
Slowly, she pressed one ear against the door to listen.
"Is it endless and empty and you wander on your own,
Slowly forgetting all the things you should have known?"
She sighed. Even on death's doorstep, his voice could still overwhelm her.
"Will my mother be there waiting for me?
With that same old look on her face,
As she calls my name?"
These last few words were spoken so wistfully that tears sprung into Christine's eyes, and she found herself opening the door before she was fully prepared to meet her Angel once more.
The man lay prone on a bed- not in the coffin that she remembered. The Persian must have moved this in here a short while ago, for it was a simple cot. But the bed was plush with new pillows and silken sheets that any homeowner would love to own. The sheets, of course, were black, and the pillows were only lightly tinged with red.
Erik wore evening clothes, as she'd always seen him. But the well-made, well-tailored clothes did nothing to hide that he was even thinner than before. Before, he had appeared frightfully thin, enough for her to think of a skeleton.
Now, he could be nothing more than skeleton, living on merely due to the will of some perverse deity. Veins were clearly visible all along his bare hands, and skin sagged from the joints. His hair was matted and mussed.
His face was uncovered.
She could not help the small gasp that escaped from her lips. No, death's door had done nothing to help Erik with his face. The gaping hole that served as his nose remained, though now it looked as though it grew with every second that passed. His eyes were more sunken in than before. Veins throbbed weakly through the translucent, yellowed skin.
She felt a wave of pity, then self-disgust.
You vain little peacock! she said to herself angrily. How dare you shy away from him when he can do nothing to you? Look at him! He is on the verge of death, and you still fear something as ridiculous as his face!
The song had stopped when she entered the room, but it was only now that she realized he'd asked a question.
He asked it again, quietly.
"Who's there?"
She trembled slightly at how dignified he managed to sound, even in this state. Then she began to step forward.
The eyes opened, and he stared at her for a moment before sighing.
"Ah, so you've come."
"I have," she replied softly.
"I don't suppose begging would do me any good at this stage, would it?"
She stared at him, not certain what he was referring to. "I… I'm afraid not," she said finally.
"It's just as well. I always knew that I could never be anything more than a fallen angel. Yet how I tried.. how I reached…"
"Erik…"
She stepped closer to him, and realized that his eyes were glazed over.
"I tried, but I never could grasp what you have," he said wistfully. "I only wish you'd told me sooner that I would never be granted heaven's gates."
"What I have-"
"Oh, Angel. How much longer? This pain… will the pain in my chest leave me as I die, at least? Will this love that tears my soul to pieces end when my heart beats its last? If it does, then I am ready."
He doesn't recognize me, she realized suddenly. He thinks that I'm an angel of some sort!
She reached out a hand, trembling, and let it hover over his own.
He sighed. "Will even you deny me touch, Angel? Will even a creature so good and true be unable to stand me for even a moment?"
The tears couldn't be stopped, and with a quiet gasp she shot out both hands and enveloped his in hers. "Erik, don't say such a thing! Please," she begged.
He jerked, startled at the contact. "Oh, Angel," he breathed.
"I'm no Angel, Erik," she whispered. "I am your pupil. I am Christine. I've come back, like I promised."
"Christine?" he asked, puzzled.
She felt a twinge of panic. He doesn't remember me!
Then he said, "Oh, Angel, no more torture. I know I cannot have her. I know that the darkest pit in Hell has been reserved for me. I pray that you simply set me free from this body. I beg of you…"
"Erik, I am Christine," she insisted. "Can't you see me? Can't you feel me? Hear me? Erik?" She squeezed his hands.
Then, softly, she began to sing,
"You were my angel, my dear teacher,
You were my guiding star…
Angel! Oh can't you see, I'm here now!
It's your Christine, Angel…"
He closed his eyes, and a small smile stretched across those grotesque lips. For a moment, he seemed to remember who she was, and she felt an impossible surge of relief at this. But then he began to sing in reply:
"Wondrous it is to behold
Dear Christine's voice one last time.."
"Erik, don't say that, please, Angel…"
"It has come-
My final bell chime!"
Christine desperately tried to make him hear her.
"Angel of Music- "Angel of Music-
Can't you hear me?I am ready!
Calling your name- Erik!For my eternal rest…"
"Angel, oh Angel, Angel, oh Angel!
Can't you see me? I'm prepared now!
Weeping for you, Angel! Take me away, Angel!"
Tears streamed down her face openly now as she shook his hands, bending over with her face close to his as she begged. "Erik, please, don't say such things…"
"My face feels wind," he murmured softly in amazement.
"Erik, look at me-"
"My hands, they're so warm…"
"I'm here, Erik-"
"Who's here with Erik?" he wondered.
Then he opened his eyes, and the glazed look left them.
Those brilliant eyes stared at her disbelievingly for a long moment, taking in her tears, the ring, and her hands grasping his own. He blinked, and his eyes widened.
Shaking visibly, he whispered, "Christine?"
"Erik!" Oh, thank God he remembers me! He recognizes me!
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "You're not… not until I've…"
"I know. But, Erik…" She tried to smile, but the tears refused to stop. "I had to come before that happened."
"Why?"
Why. What a simple question. If only the answer was equally simple…
Christine shook her head. "Because I had to. Oh, Erik…"
"Christine… you're shedding tears for me?" he asked in wonderment, freeing one hand from hers and lifting it towards her face. He paused, the limb trembling from lack of use, waiting for her to show any sign of revulsion. When none came, he gently wiped a tear from underneath one eye. "Oh, Christine, better people- humans, even- deserve your tears far more than I."
"Don't say that," she said. "You're human too, Erik. You're human too."
He let his hand drop back onto his chest. "…My mask?" he asked suddenly.
"Not here," she told him.
His eyes widened in panic, and his hands struggled to lift towards his face.
She grasped them both firmly and held them where they were, watching as a flash of anger passed over his face, followed by confusion.
"Aren't I hideous, Christine?" he asked.
Christine attempted another smile, and this time managed a tiny one. "Yes, Angel. You always were, you know?"
That drew out a tired chuckle from him, which was what she'd been attempting. It was enough to strengthen the small smile on her face.
"I see that you've learned how to handle yourself better since you left me," he murmured. "Oh, Christine…"
"Erik…" She paused.
Here was a moment that she knew was never going to come again. Here he lay, listening to whatever she had to say. She could make a joke, or say something serious, or something meaningful. She could cry over him, she could hurt him again by mentioning her fiance…
And she had no idea what to say or do.
So she let the tears flow over her smile and continued to grasp his hands, gently rubbing them to help the circulation.
The moment came, held, and passed as Erik- still filled with wonderment that such a creature from above would deign to visit him, much less touch him without fear- enjoyed the simple contact. Too long he'd been forced to interact with the human race by voice alone. Suddenly, he could touch and be touched, and he let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes for a moment.
Her slightly panicked voice made him open them again. "Erik? Erik, are you still here?"
"I'm here, Christine," he said, feeling another smile stretch across his horrid features.
"Don't leave," she said quietly.
"Oh, Christine, if this moment could only last forever I would be a happy man. But it won't." He took in a deep breath, and then started to talk quickly, if quietly. "Know this, Christine; I will always hate your young man for taking you from me, but I will also always love him for every time he makes you smile. While I may not be able to watch over you while I'm in Hell, the thought of you being happy will be enough to sustain me. Will you be happy for me, Christine?"
"Yes, I will," Christine said, squeezing his hands again.
"You will," he repeated.
"Yes, I promise," she said. One hand freed his to gently caress his face. "Oh, Erik…"
Suddenly, inexplicably, he frowned and turned his head slightly to look over her left shoulder. "Who's there?" he asked.
Then, as Christine watched, the frown disappeared, and slowly turned into a smile. The smile grew into an expression of incredulous joy.
"So… bright!" he whispered. "Christine, look! It's so beautiful… so warm-"
He fell silent. His hands fell limply from hers.
The room was filled with a dreadful silence.
"Erik?" she asked, her voice shaking.
He didn't respond.
She shook his hands, then his shoulders. "Erik!" she begged.
No response.
She started to pound her little fists against his chest. "ERIK!"
There was no reply, nothing to signify that he'd heard.
Sobbing, Christine lay her head down on his chest. "No, no," she said. "Not now, please, I just got to talk to him, no-!"
"Mademoiselle!"
She looked up, tears blurring her vision as the Persian hurried into the room. "He's dead," she sobbed. "He's dead and he won't come back and I tried and oh God, he's dead-"
"Mademoiselle!"
The Persian gently pulled her away from the corpse, and after a moment of fighting him she flung herself fiercely into his arms, filling the air with piteous cries of grief.
"Oh, Mademoiselle Daae, I know," he said quietly. He patted her back, and gently pulled away long enough to look her in the face. "I know it hurts. But you have given him a gift, one his soul will always cherish!"
"I left him and stole his ring and took his lessons and flung them away and-"
"Never mind that, Mademoiselle. Look! Look what you have given him!"
Christine shook her head. "He's dead-"
"Christine, look at him and be contented!" he said sharply, and drew her around to look.
Reluctantly, she did so.
And gasped.
Erik's face, which had always been gruesome at best, was still twisted into that expression of unbelievable happiness and wonder. It seemed, somehow, to smooth over the roughest regions of his skin. The veins, no longer throbbing, were not as visible in his skin. And, for some reason, said skin seemed to be glowing gently with a light from within, and not yellowed and diseased.
And a smile was on his face still.
That last smile- that look of pure joy- gave the only two who'd truly known the Phantom of the Opera a sense of peace when the time came to lay his body to rest.