A/N: My first post of 2016! I meant to post this way sooner but, of course, got caught up with the new year and the rest of the holidays. I was also determined to finish at least two more chapters of The Angel's Shadow's sequel before I posted another chapter of The Art Of Manipulation. I apologize ahead of time if my next update takes a while because...*drumroll*... This Friday is my birthday! Sooo, to celebrate my last few days as a teen (*cries*), I may not be writing as much. But I'll try to update as soon as I can. Enough of my rambling! I hope you all had a great New Year! Happy 2016!
Chapter Five || The Old Managers
"And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?"
~ W. Shakespeare's Twelfth Night; or, What You Will Act 2, Scene 4, lines 110-112
~*~
I twirled my rose between my fingers, the twin to the one that will sit in the Prima Donna's dressing room later tonight; the twin to the rose Erik will give his future wife. A light blue mist fell over my rose, the same rose that sits on my bookshelf in Asgard. I vaguely wondered how Loki's magic worked and if that rose from the future still existed there, safely kept within a glass case, sheltering my memories; or perhaps protecting me from them.
There were no sounds near my room, not at this hour; no sounds but the lone beat of my battered heart. I saw a memory of myself in the form of a ghost sitting at my vanity table. I watched her from my desk as she hunched over the translucent rose in her hands, confused by the things she had heard outside of Christine's dressing room; confused by the voices of the man she loves and his pupil she had just assisted.
"You must love me!"
"How can you say that to me, when I sing only for you?"
I had been so naive then, so innocent, pure even. I hadn't believed what I had heard. I hadn't wanted to believe it, so I denied it, over and over again. It wasn't Erik's voice telling Christine to love him. It was some other man. Some other mortal with the same entrancing heart beat that I lived for.
My ghost's head snapped towards the door, hearing the rich voice that called for her from the catacombs. I almost wanted to reach out and grab my eager spirit before she left the room, wanting to spare her the pain she would soon experience. Wanting to spare her from what she kept denying just now at her vanity table. My vanity table.
I remember it so well, that night. How could I forget such a night, such a painful memory? He had been so excited, so frantic, so fervent, so...in love. In love and lost.
"Alouette! Alouette! Did you hear her?! Did you hear her?! Have you ever heard such an unworldly voice?! Such an angelic voice?!"
Yes I have. I had thought. Yours.
If my heart wasn't already at my feet I would have felt it sink again. He had held me, praised me, thanked me for putting Christine in Carlotta's place. "And what a beautiful song you had chosen, Alouette! A perfect song for my little Christine. My Christine."
His Christine.
"But I fear-" he had spoken quickly, anxiously, stopping his hyper pacing as if he was afraid his movement would trigger whatever he was afraid of. "Did you see him, Alouette? Did you see that insolent boy?"
I laugh now at the name boy. Raoul was only a few years older than Christine who was just a girl herself. Is just a girl. Present tense.
She had slept soundly that night, a smile on her face as she dreamt about her performance, and of her Angel. She hadn't dreamed of Raoul; he wasn't worthy enough to appear in her fantasy world. She had been excited to see her childhood companion after so many years but she never took to liking him the way he liked her. I could tell this by the lack of faster breathing, faster pulse, whenever Raoul was around her, trying to court her. That rapid breathing and heart rate only appeared when Erik came near and spoke to her. Much like me.
"Do you think she could like me, Alouette? Do you think she could ever love poor, unhappy Erik?"
Love.
There was no more denial after Erik had uttered that word, his green eyes staring into mine, desperate for an answer in his favor.
"I'm sure she will, Erik."
He had hastily put down my answer, waving his hands by his head and sulking away, "No, Alouette. Not with the past Erik has. Not with Erik's face. That boy will surely win her heart. Good men always win. And Erik is a bad, bad man."
I had heard Erik speak of himself in third person only once before that night. It was when I had asked him about his past, what he had done, why he lived in the catacombs. He had said, "Erik has done many things to deserve the life he has." And we had left it at that. Up until then that is. Or up until tonight.
"Erik is a bad man. Erik is a murderer, a demon. A man too evil for someone as pure as Christine."
A murderer. I had thought, perplexed that the man standing before me had committed murder in his life.
He was a sweet man, a man striving to be good. A man running from his sins, hiding from them like Jonah, praying in the stomach of the opera house and hoping to eventually be let free. I knew that then and I know that now. I know now that Christine was his redemption, as I have said before. Christine is the woman God sent to command the evil stomach of Erik's past to vomit him out, to let him free.
And to answer a question that you may be asking me: No, I haven't seen Erik's face; the face he kept hidden behind a mask the color of purity. I had wanted to ask him many times, and then after the night of Christine...it was no longer my place to ask him.
And now, for the second time around, I kept to myself most of the day, already knowing what parts of Hannibal needed fixing for opening night. I lifted Piangi's flat notes, prevented the pianist's finger from slipping like it had before. Now, after reassuring Christine she would be fantastic in her debut, I sat on the top of the stairway that led to the lower catwalk above the stage. I kept my head in my hands, holding tight to trap my sanity within my head. My mind kept flashing to what had happened the day after tomorrow. Erik had been anxious, worried about the young man who courted his new found love. So he had taken new steps at making Christine his own...
"I had seen him, Madame Alouette. He brought me to him." Christine had trembled like I am right now; her eyes wide, her lips pale. "He is not an angel, he is a man. He is the Opera Ghost." She had cried; cold, heavy tears falling from her chestnut eyes. She told me of the lair, the lake, the bed that looked like a swan. All the things I have seen so many times. She told me of Erik, the man who wore a mask.
I had held her small form close as she wept, comforting her, assuring her, "Your Angel of Music is a lot like your father. Like your father he keeps hidden and in solitude because he is homesick for a home he never had." She had held onto my dress, her tears wetting my hair, "You can give him that home, Christine. And he will love you with every part of his soul." I had pulled back and brought her forward, cupping her soft cheeks with my hands and wiping away her tears. "He has so much love to give, and no one to give it to." I felt my voice threaten to break, "I promise you he will not hurt you." Her crying calmed, her sobs becoming no more than a quiet whimper. "Beneath that mask he wears is one of the kindest souls that has ever lived, he only needs someone to be kind to."
She had asked if I knew what he looked like. I answered with a quiet, "No."
The opening notes for Act III began. My head lifted from my hands and I squinted down at the burning lights. I filled my lungs to their breaking point and pushed myself from my place on the stairs. My hands fiercely shook, the stress and heartache taking its toll on my nerves. I grabbed the railing to steady them, to steady me.
Christine stepped onstage, the heavy costume trailing behind her. I wondered fleetingly how a small frame as hers managed to hold such a heavy costume. I shook my head and forced myself to focus.
Destiny. I thought. Tonight was destiny.
I closed my eyes. Christine closed hers. The music began.
When I had opened my eyes I gazed at the crowd through Christine, a blue haze slightly clouding my vision. I did as I had before. I gave Christine her voice, I gave her part of my soul. A gift I have only given once in my lifetime. Or twice now.
It was easier this time, my powers stronger than they had been over one hundred years ago. She didn't faint, I didn't weaken. Both of us stood tall once it was over; Christine's chin raised with beaming bliss at success, mine raised in attempt to keep the facade of strength and indifference.
I now sat in my room, my hands still trembling like a caffeine addict's. Downstairs I heard the party going on to celebrate Christine's triumph and a successful opening night for the new managers.
From where I had my head buried in my arms on my desk, I heard the faint woosh of air swirling beside me, closely followed by a smooth voice, "How much longer do you think you can do this?"
I turned my head to the side, my left cheek resting on my forearms, "Haven't seen you in a while, Loki. I thought you had abandoned me here."
He leaned against the side of my plain mahogany desk, looking down at me with disinterest, "Maybe I should abandon you here. Perhaps then you'll come to your senses and realize that boy liked you."
Boy. That name seems to be going around. Loki is at least three hundred years older than Erik. And me...well....I suppose it would be hypocritical to make comments about the age difference between Erik and Christine.
Loki picked up the rose Erik had given me and I snapped up and snatched it from him, "Do not touch this!" I stared at him long and hard, my lip quivering and my hand shaking as I set the rose a safe distance away from him.
He scoffed at me and shook his head, "You're pathetic. Look at you, trembling like you're about to shatter into a million pieces. Admit it, Alouette. You're close to breaking."
I wanted to ask what he meant by breaking. Did he mean I was close to giving in to his game or having an emotional breakdown? I myself am not sure which one I am closer to.
"Do you remember how you were after tonight? After you learned of your lover's love for his little pupil?" Loki raised his invisible brow and I turned away, wanting the memory to fade.
Instead of it fading, however, an image of myself appeared at the mirror I had turned my attention to. She faded into Christine, and then back to me, and then back to Christine, then flickering slightly between both Christine and me as a bead of sweat trickled down my brow, mixing with the tear that was already gathered at my chin.
Loki chuckled behind me, "Shapeshifting was never your strongest power."
I shut my eyes tight and held my face in my hands, unable to say anything. I had wanted so badly to be Christine, to be Erik's, that I briefly thought I could fool him into thinking I was her, if only for just one day. I tried so hard to hold Christine's image, but just like me, the image had been flawed.
I heard the illusion vanish. Loki remained leaning against the desk, regarding me with curiosity. An apple appeared in his hand and he rubbed it against the front of his armor to shine it, "Had the mortal ever heard you sing? Truly sing? Or has he only heard the diminished voice you use when you pretend to be a mortal?" He took a loud bite, the crunchy fruit being devoured by his sharp teeth.
I shook my head, my hands still covering my face to protect it from any more unwanted images.
The desk shifted as Loki gently pushed himself into an upright position, "The only reason Kirsten-"
"Christine."
"-was such a success is because it is your voice that comes from her mouth. You gave her a part of you, the Goddess of Music. And now he loves her. The world will love her because of you. And she will love him because of the desire you planted in her."
I tasted blood in my mouth from where my teeth dug into my lip. The rest of my body trembled along with my hands.
It is true. I gave her her voice, I gave her my voice, my true voice. It was before I had known how to enhance voices without giving them my voice. Back then I didn't have a clue what effect it would have on mortals...on Erik...
The floorboards creaked under Loki's heavy steps. He began mocking the song I had written, the song Christine had sung, "Think of it. All the regret you'll feel those years from now." He came around my other side, bending low to wrap his arm around my shoulders. "Come now, Alouette. Think of it. Don't you want our night to be more than it was? Don't you want it to be real? To have his real voice sighing your name and writing love notes across your flesh with his lips? Don't you want his arms around you instead of an impostor's? Instead of mine?" He whispered close to my cold ear, the smell of apple drifting to my nostrils, "Think of it, Alouette."
I thought of it. I thought of it hard. Images from that night came back to me like a hurricane of unwanted memories. The weight of his hips on mine. The smell of our passion. The sound of his groans. The way Erik's green eyes stared back into mine as he pressed his forehead against mine. Only they weren't Erik's eyes, they were Loki's. His green eyes were different from Erik's. They were brighter, sharper, a hint of malice behind them. Erik's were a deeper green, kind and sad, the ghost of his past creating shadows in them. How I wanted those eyes, his true eyes, to stare back at me with the same amount of desire I had when I stared at him.
I lifted my head from my hands, seeing Loki's smirk out of the corner of my blue eye. Those images he brought back to me dangled like the forbidden fruit, drawing me, coaxing me to take it with its delicious and ripe beauty. The fruit was like the fruit of William Blake's Poison Tree that was watered with tears and sunned with false smiles; delicious but deadly. I could taste the sweet redness on my tongue before my fingers had even touched it.
We both sat in silence, Loki's serpent eyes watching me closely, mine fixed on the image Loki had created in my imagination. And then, slowly, the fingers of my mind uncurled, extending to that enticing apple, so sweet, so red, so juicy. I plucked it free from the Forbidden Tree, "What is your plan?"