Inspiration: Nothing really. Just felt like writing something serious for once. No twiny! Not Sirius! Serious! I know, I know. You love Sirius Black. I love Erik the Phantom. Moving on...
Disclaimer: Don't own it. That's why I'm writing fanfiction. Wish I owned it. I also wish I had magical powers and coul conjure up Erik right now and love him and keep him and... (Link: AHEM!) ... and then put him aside once in a while to pay attention to Link too! Heh... heh... Yeah...
Clarification: Characters based on the 2004 movie because I adore Gerry's interpretation. Except the deformity because I think it could've been so much better. And the swordfight because, seriously, Erik losing to Raoul? A fop? A FOP? Just trim his hair! It's the source of his power!
In
Retrospect
I write now not to justify any of his actions nor to portray myself as a victim of circumstance. I am as much the saving grace as he is a monster; which, if one truly understands, they realize neither of us is.
As the mob searched furiously, their track of mind temporarily paralyzed at the sight of such treasures, I found myself with the ghost in my hands. It was white, made of leather. So difficult it was to believe that such a small, harmless thing had seen the deaths of several. It was almost lovely, sculpted to fit or give the impression of chiseled features, in a painfully ironic way. My finger traced the outline of the eyehole, remembering the blazing iris that had shined through it, even in the darkness.
How could any person ever live in such a place, especially alone? So cold, so damp and dark, but most of all so quiet. Perhaps that was why he could write such divine music, music that could inspire our blackest passions and bring them to the surface until it was impossible to hide them, even from ourselves. In such suffocating silence, what brilliance could be unearthed, echoing from the black fire licking the cavern walls?
It was then that I had noticed the curtain, hanging in the middle of the wall, seeming so misplaced amidst the shattered mirrors. And truly, when I pulled back the velvet there was a tunnel, through which I was certain he had escaped. Was it curiosity that led me to follow him? Or was it anger, a thirst to see the man who had destroyed my home and threatened my dearest friend? The truth is, it was neither. Well, perhaps curiosity played a part, but mostly it was something else. I was just a ballet rat, nothing more. It was only natural that I often fantasized about ghosts and adventure, mystery and intrigue, just as Christine did about her Angel of Music. More than anything I think it was the need to feel special, to be the only one who followed the Phantom, who found him! I did not think ahead, of what I would do once I found him. It didn't matter. That was too far ahead of me and the tunnel was too dark to allow foresight.
A door shut behind me as soon as I entered; a rigged cover to his tracks which had activated itself belatedly. I knew I couldn't be too far behind.
I shall not go into detail about the confrontation which was to follow. But it was no ghost that I came upon. Only a broken man, not sure whether he was furious at me for the violation of his home or if he was too miserable to care. It was strange, watching him curse me and fling threats one moment and seeing him sink to the floor, weakened by his own internal hell the next. Perhaps that was why I followed him to the floor. Perhaps it was his confusion which bewitched me, or memories of his seductive song only hours prior, or the look of pure desperation. Perhaps it was the whimper, so like an abandoned child, which stirred compassion in me. Or, in retrospect, it might have just been my maternal core trembling, needing to hold and nurture this child at my feet, even if he took on the form of a grown man.
Whatever the reason, I knelt beside him, moving his hands away from his face. His horrible, poor face which seemed so less frightening with the glimmer of tears streaming down his cheeks. I had no thoughts as I brought my own hands to his head and pulled him to my chest; where I held him. I felt nothing as I rocked him in my arms, telling him he was not alone, swearing that I would stay with him until the pain passed, lying to him; telling him he was beautiful. Or at least, it was a lie at the time for I knew him not personally and his face was vile! I was ignorant, then, of the goodness of his soul and the richness of his spirit.
Still I stayed, rocking him as one would a toddler and cooing into his ear as one would an infant. With every tender sound his sobs only increased until his pain broke through the haze around my mind and pressed two fingers against my heart. I felt tears begin to prick my own eyes and soon I was weeping with him, for him. So much emotion surged up in me, and it was not even my own! I could not control my body. It went of its own accord and began to stroke his back and his neck, combing through the poor tufts of hair that he had on one side and the soft, thick locks on the other. I stifled my own sobs by kissing his head, an act which resulted in him gripping my shirt in desperate need for release. Release of his pain, whatever its source, which had taken him so deep that even I, barely skimming the surface, could feel the chilling effects.
When finally his sobs began to slow and his trembling relaxed, his grip began to loosen. Still I continued to caress his neck and back, transfixed by how suddenly and powerfully his sorrow had come to me and then gone, just as abruptly. Minutes after his tears had been spent, he made no move. I said nothing, I did nothing. I was not frightened, not holding him as I was. Yet I knew I was not thinking clearly, though I cared not to clear my thoughts.
It seemed forever until he finally took a deep, shuddering breath and moved away; turning his face so that I could not see. I stayed, my arms falling limp into my lap. The fog around my mind thickened and I felt conscious drifting away.
Staring out into space, I did not, could not register what had just happened. I did not realize I had just held the Phantom of the Opera in my arms. I did not comprehend that I had comforted the Opera Ghost as if he was a small child. It might as well all have been a distant dream. Not even my own dream but that of another person, far from here.
"Marguerite." He said sharply, coldly, suddenly. I blinked, coming back to my senses, and stood. Only then did I register what had happened, what was happening. I felt my legs begin to shake as reality set back in. His voice was back to its usual, menacing ways. I was afraid.
He turned towards me, his hand now covering the right side of his face almost ashamedly. I swallowed my shivers and stole my strength to reach into my bosom and pull out the white mask I had found in his home. The ghost.
I held it out, only slightly. Really, I wanted nothing more than to get it as far from me as possible, but my arm would not stretch very far without trembling.
In one quick, fluid motion he had snatched up the mask and replaced it on his face. How long had he worn that mask that he could place it so easily, as if it were a part of him?
Then he stood before me, tall and changed. No trace of the man I had held was to be found. No, this was no man. What stood before me then was a ghost. The ghost. For a moment I wondered if I was going to die and how. Would it be quick, painless and silent? Or would he prolong my execution, to inflict as much pain as possible, so that my screams would echo off the cavern walls and keep the music in his twisted mind company?
Then he was speaking. "We must go. You cannot return the way you came. The passage is sealed so that only I can open it. And to open it would be to reveal myself. It is your life of mine, young Giry, and I am afraid I cannot afford to be chivalrous at the moment. I have done your mother the favor of not killing her only daughter. It is a pity she will never know." He picked his torch from the wall and walked further down the tunnel, not even signaling for me to follow. He called back only once saying "I cannot be held responsible for you actions, however mademoiselle. If you choose to act irresponsibly, I cannot promise your wellbeing."
I would not stay there in the dark so I followed, blindly, knowing now that he would not kill me. But that did not mean he would not hurt me and what was more, he had said my mother would not see that he had spared my life. I was a prisoner and he could do what he wanted with me. Surprisingly, the thought did not frighten as much as it should have. The fog was beginning to settle again. It had been a long night, after all. In retrospect, I was exhausted.
Please reveiw and tell me how I am at writing something besides humor. Thank you.