Chapter Eleven || Who Can Name The Face?
"The 'Red Death' had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous.... And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the rebel lets in the blood-bedewed halls of their reveled, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripod expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."
~ The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar A. Poe
~*~
"It was you who lead Buquet to his death."
"Alouette, I was only having a bit of fun. I didn't know it would lead to that."
We were in my room now, today's chaotic static sound morphing into the silence of night.
Loki sat in my chair while I leaned against my desk, my arms crossed over my chest. My lips were pressed into a stern line, my eyes regarding the floor instead of angrily regarding the culprit sitting in my chair.
Loki sat with his hips at the edge of the chair and his legs spread wide, subconsciously claiming all the space he could. He kept his hands half dangling between his legs and he watched as he played with his blackened nails. He resembled an adolescent mortal waiting to enter the principle's office; fully aware he was guilty but in no way going to admit he was at fault. Nothing is ever Loki's fault. He was only just having "a bit of fun". And if you're merely having "a bit of fun", whatever mishaps happen are forgivable, right?
I frustratedly used my hips to push my tall form away from my desk and began pacing at the foot of my bed. Chewing on my worn down nail I muttered, "No one was supposed to die."
Loki twisted in his seat with a guilt-ridden expression he attempted to hide with false exasperation, "It was an accident, Alouette!"
"Was it, Loki?" I snapped. He sunk back into his chair, lowering his eyes to the floor. I continued to shout at him, "You never know when it's too far, do you?!" When he said nothing I raised my voice even more, "Do you?!"
Loki ran his hand over his face and sighed, "I'm sorry, Alouette. I know you liked the old bugger. I didn't think he'd get killed."
Exasperated myself, I plumped down on my bed and covered my face, "I need a moment alone, please. To think."
Loki stared at me a moment. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it when I sent him a bone chilling look. With a gentle poof! and a flash of green, my chair became empty, no trace of the Jotun who occupied it just seconds ago. It wasn't even warm. Not that Loki was warm. I think even if he wasn't a Jotun, a Frost Giant, he would still be cold and sadistic.
I stood up from my bed and approached my desk, the solitary candle creating enough light for me to gaze at the contents sitting on it. At the head of the desk laid my rose, Erik's rose. It had an aura of blue around it, the spell of Life keeping it as youthful as it was when he gave it to me. The same spell kept the same rose alive and beautiful for over a hundred years. Perhaps I accidentally casted the same spell on my love for Erik.
I picked up the rose and pressed it to my nose, closing my eyes as the sweet scent invaded my senses. The smell of parchment and candles still lingered on it. I visioned Erik's fingers when they handed me this rose, handling it with so much care. I remembered his hand at the small of my back as we walked, protecting me, guiding me. When the image of those same hands tightly gripping the rope around Buquet's throat entered my mind, I opened my eyes and shook my head to clear it.
That rage, that burning in his eyes that made them glow in the darkness. He had looked so at ease when he choked the life from Buquet's defenseless body, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He had looked so different from the man I had become so close to. Perhaps that is what Madame Giry was referring to. Perhaps she had met his demons, perhaps she had seen that side of him that had been kept hidden all this time.
I thought of Erik's gentle touch again. That caring gaze, the sad glimmer of a dying flame in the back of his eyes.... And the burning fires of Hell that stormed behind his eyes last night. But when I called for him, when he heard my voice and met my gaze, I saw the man inside him, pounding against the insides of the stranger, begging to be released, to be in control instead of the murderer.
The murderer isn't Erik. That is not his true nature. I see that. I know that. Erik is kind, gentle, sweet, passionate. He only lacks guidance. And perhaps he lacked someone to teach him right from wrong as a child. No, the Murderer is not truly Erik. The Murderer is what the world conditioned him to be. The Murderer is what he was forced to become after suffering from years of hatred and malice towards his face. Like a lot of us, we start with a warm and caring soul, only to have Life's cruel winds freeze it and blow out its flame.
A month passed by, and then another, and another. The Opéra Populiare seemed to hum like a dormant volcano. The cellars remained silent, apart from the usual sound of workers, rats, and boilers. No music, no movement from within the lair. Just the dull throb of a broken man's heart.
Above him, in his kingdom, the opera house thrived. Three months had gone by without a single word from its terrorist. There have been no notes, no missing articles, no deaths. Silence. Only silence.
During these three months Loki remained by my side, also silent. Posing as my new assistant director, he helped with all the little details, such as finding me new pencils and blank sheet music, even tea. Neither of us commented on the random disappearance of the Opera Ghost. And neither of us participated in rekindling the fire. After Buquet's murder we had both retreated into our shells. Why? Maybe we were afraid, now seeing what Erik was truly capable of, what he would do if properly poked and agitated. What I had feared had been true, Erik was much like a coiled up rattle snake: harmless until you begin nudging it with a stick. So instead we looked into the snake's hole, too afraid to put our hand in it to see if the green eyed snake would take a bite again.
As the New Year approached, the employees of the Opéra Populaire prepared for tonight's masquerade ball. Artists, performers and the like would gather for tonight's gala, ready for a night of gaiety, alcohol, and casual intercourse. Loki was among those employees, helping the musicians pick out music for the dances like I asked - told - him to. His occasional grumbles of annoyance brought smiles to my face as I prepared myself for the ball.
Standing before my floor length mirror I reached behind me to fasten the top button of my gown. The midnight shade of my dress matched my ebony hair perfectly, the silk sparkling flirtatiously in the fading sunlight. Smoothing out the skirt and adjusting the top of my bodice that spread into an obtuse V and wrapped scandalously low around my shoulders, I sighed. I stopped for a moment and stared at my reflection, not caring for the selfish Asgardian who stared back at me.
Is it all worth it? Will all that I have done leave me genuinely happy in the end? Or will I spend the rest of my life with Erik feeling guilty about ruining the life I knew he would have had? That is, if the plan works and I spend the rest of my life - or more accurately: the rest of Erik's life - with him. At this rate I wasn't sure. I thought for sure by now he would have given up on Christine and the spell my voice put him under would at last be broken.
I absently ran my thumb along my lower lip as I thought.
Maybe I should just move. If I can't return to Asgard, I'll move to England. Or maybe some other country further away from here. I could live through the next hundred years again, right? They weren't so bad. The mortals in the 21st century were irritating anyways, I am in no rush to go back to them.
But then I'd have to go through those same years knowing Erik is still around, within reach if I stretched out far enough. He wouldn't be mine, but he would be there, alive and well. At least I think he is alive and well. I know he's alive. Although his heart rate has been quieter than usual...
I thought of the first time I had said farewell to Erik and his family. The aria for Hannibal that I had written with him in mind had formed into a whole new meaning for me. I sang it now, smiling sadly, not holding back and - as Loki phrased it - 'pretended to be a mortal' but using my real voice, "Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in a while, please promise me you'll try." Later at his funeral I learned that he hadn't tried. It was as if I had never existed in his life at all. I believe I had told you this before. I apologize if I keep repeating myself. You see, talking is something I do when I am upset or anxious. And so now here I am rambling to you, boring you to sleep.
Sitting at my vanity table I continued to sing while I attached my glittering diamond earrings, "Say you'll share with me one love, one life time. Lead me save me from my solitude." I looked to the rose that I had set beside my bottles of perfume. "Say you'll want me with you now and always." I ran my fingers down its stem and whispered, "Love me, that's all I ask of you."
A heavy knock caused me to yank my hand away from Erik's rose. My head whipped not towards my door but to the wall behind me, on the right side of my closet door. I walked over to the wall, eyeing it suspiciously, wondering if someone in the next room had merely dropped something. I then remembered there was no next room. Inching closer to hear better, I whispered, "Hello?"
"Alouette." The voice came from behind the wall, sounding formal and muffled by the wooden planks, "It's Erik."
I jumped back, gasping quietly. I had been so distracted I hadn't even heard him come up from the lair.
A moment later, after I had said nothing, Erik asked, "Are you decent?"
I looked down at my gown and fumbled with making my mess of hair look presentable, "Y-Yes. Sorry. I wasn't-" I cleared my throat, "I wasn't...expecting...anyone. Especially you."
"Ah, yes, of course." There was a brief silence, and then he continued, "May I come in?"
"Oh! Why, yes!" My eyes scanned the plain wall before me, "How do I...how do I," I awkwardly felt the seemingly solid structure before me, "How exactly do I let you in?" I tilted my head to the side and began searching the places where the wall met the floor and the ceiling. I hadn't even known there was a secret passageway behind one of my walls.
A quiet click! came from behind the wall and soon after, a seam formed in the wallpaper. The door swung open without a squeak and exposed the man standing in the unlit hallway. He nearly filled the unknown doorway, his wide shoulders creating little space on either side of him and his head coming a mere inch or two from the top.
My breath hitched when I saw him, both out of awe and shock. He, too, was dressed for the ball. He wore a flaming red suit, it's long red cape draped over his bent arm. He wore a different mask, it's color a darker white than the other one he usually wore. It covered both sides of his face, leaving nothing but his eyes, lips and chin exposed. He looked like the Red Death; absolutely mesmerizing.
Clearing my throat again I tore myself from his overpowering presence and gestured to my door, "You could have come in that way, you know. Less hassle."
Glancing at the door Erik smirked, his black painted eyes drifting downward momentarily, "I apologize. I promise you I haven't been spying this entire time. I completely forgot about this passageway until tonight."
"Oh?" I slowly rubbed my hands together to feel less awkward. I felt giddy and anxious being in front of the man I had been thinking about just moments ago. "And what made you think of it now?"
"I heard singing."
I froze.
He may have forgotten about the passageway but he can still hear everything if it is spoken...or sung...loud enough.
He remained in the doorway, his piercing eyes fixed on me, "At first I thought it was Christine, but she is on the other side of the opera house. Was it...you?"
I swallowed - hard. Flashing a smile I stammered, "M-Me, Erik?" I laughed anxiously, "I have sung for you before. The voice you heard was nothing like Christine's." Loki would be proud of the way I lied but didn't lie.
"Yes, I..." Erik chewed on his lips, his eyes furrowing behind his mask, "I suppose you're right. I could have sworn it came from this side of the opera house but maybe I am hearing things. Erik sometimes hears things."
I only nodded.
Another empty silence fell between us and I shifted on my feet. Noticing a black leather folder under Erik's arm I asked, "What is that?"
He looked down to the folder, "Ah." A closed, but proud, smile formed on his colorless lips, "Don Juan, I have finished it."
What? He wasn't supposed to finish that for years. He always said he'd go to his grave once he finished composing it. And he did go to his grave the last time he had finished Don Juan. He died a year after he completed it to be exact.
Eyeing it cautiously I asked, "May I see it?"
Erik hesitated, also eyeing the bundle under his arm. He eventually brought it from its protective place, wincing slightly as he did so.
Without taking the sheet music held in his outstretched hand I asked, "Are you alright?"
He kept his eyes on the music, his lips pursed as if he was embarrassed a woman had seem him falter under pain, "I'm alright."
Forgetting about the music and about the ordeals we both have been enduring, I grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards me, my eyes glued to where I believed the pain started, "Is it your shoulder, Erik? What happened?"
Uncomfortable with my sudden act of aid he stiffly replied, "It's nothing, Alouette. Just a bullet wound."
"A bullet wound? Erik!" Shoving him onto the bed I tugged his crimson jacket aside and inspected what I could through the slightly transparent cotton shirt. "Did you remove all of the bullet? Have you seen a doctor?"
"Really, Alouette, I'm alright." He struggled to keep upright with my constant yanking of his clothing to view the wound better.
Looking up into his jade eyes I asked, "What happened? Who did this to you?"
He winced again when my fingers began feeling his shoulder for the mangled flesh, "Three months ago I went to look for that boy in his room. He saw me on the balcony and shot me."
I stilled. Raising my gaze to meet Erik's I said slowly, "You went to Raoul's house and he shot you?" Rolling my eyes I let out a heavy sigh and went back to searching Erik's arm for the sensitive area, "You mortals are so foolish. Childish and foolish." Erik hissed slightly when I found the bulge of the stitched up wound. I muttered a few more things under my breath before addressing Erik, "The wound seems to be healing alright."
A small smirk tugged at Erik's lips, "I told you."
I glared up at him, turning my attention back to the covered arm and smoothing my hand over the fabric of his shirt. Sighing again I spoke quietly, my hand still caressing his shoulder, "You need to be more careful, Erik."
"I know." He said this low, a hint of an amused smile in his voice. I met his gaze, taken aback by how warm it was. "Thank you for your concern."
Blinking, I paused, then smiled in return, "You're welcome."
He shrugged his jacket back on and refastened the buttons. While he did this I reached for the music in his lap, hovering my hand by it and raising my eyebrows politely, "May I?" When he nodded I picked up the folder, untying the leather string that held it shut.
Paging through the score I read the scribbled notes, humming them in my mind and mentally comparing them to the copy of Don Juan sitting on my shelf in Asgard. The copy in my hands is different, a few of the notes off by a flat or a sharp note. It wasn't smooth or gentle like the first version which sounded like its composer was making passionate love to your soul like Don Juan himself. Instead it was angry, loud; the demons in Erik's soul thrown onto parchment with red ink.
I paged through the rest with a neutral look on my face to hide the disquiet I felt crawl over my skin. I noticed how the handwriting had changed as well, becoming more frantic and chaotic as I got deeper into the score. I suppose the writing in the first version had done the same, but it became more aggressive, more desperate, like lovers clinging to each other as they neared their climax. The writing in my hands now became jagged and sharp like barbed wire twisting around the bars they climbed on; sharp and dangerous.
Erik regarded me while I skimmed through it. He then tilted his head, as if suddenly realizing something. His mask moved when he furrowed his brows, "Did you...Did you call me a 'mortal' a moment ago?"
My hands clutched onto the music tighter, my strength coming close to ripping it. But before my fingers unintentionally ripped through the pages, my tense shoulders relaxed as a wave of tingly pleasure attacked my body, all due to Erik's laugh filling my soul.
He left shortly after, gracefully raising from my bed with Don Juan under his arm. I stood, too, feeling a twang of disappointed that he didn't stay longer. We both walked to the hidden passageway that was still open, exchanging a few casual words. Stopping in the hallway he faced me, gazing down at me with those intoxicating eyes. If only he knew what I have been up to these past months. If only he knew of my actions to corrupt his happiness. Surely I would be the next person to be found hanging by my neck. Not that it would effect me, my Asgardian bones much stronger than a mortal's. But if it were to kill me, it would be a fitting end for me.
Prickles formed where Erik's ungloved hand grasped mine, his palm molding into my palm perfectly. He brought my hand to his mouth, placing a deep kiss onto my knuckles. The back of my index finger caressed the small area of exposed skin by his mouth, causing his eyes to flutter shut for just a moment.
I watched as he retreated into the blackened hallway, the door swinging shut on its own, creating yet another barrier between me and the man I love.
~*~
Loki spun me around the lobby, regarding me closely while I allowed the orchestra to drown out the thoughts in my mind. His black mask matched mine, our costumes complimenting each other to nod to our positions of Music Director and Assistant Music Director. I kept my gaze anywhere else but his, thinking of the coolness of his Jotun flesh instead of the warm glow that thrummed where Erik pressed his lips against my hand.
"You've talked to him, haven't you." A smirk played on Loki's thin lips. I looked up at him, about to ask how he knew I had seen Erik but he spoke first, "I can tell by your smile."
Smile? Have I been smiling?
Loki chuckled, "Yes, you have been smiling. Not manically but noticeable. Like a woman who is completely smitten." Loki's smile then vanished, his eyes no longer illuminating the glitter on his mask.
I felt thankful that my mask covered the flush of my cheeks. Lowering my gaze I said, "He came to my room."
The dry persona returning, Loki made an exclamation of relief and droned out, "You finally deflowered him!"
Rolling my eyes and glaring at him I said, "No. He came because he heard me singing."
Loki looked shocked, the teasing demeanor he always had disappearing, "He heard you sing?"
Twirling past the vicomte and Christine I lowered my voice, "Yes, he did. He followed the sound thinking it was Christine. But she was on the other side of the opera house."
"So, he knows? He knows you are Christine's voice?"
"No, he doesn't. "
Looking down his nose he asked with a sliver of either arrogance or false interest in his voice, "What did he say?
I shrugged my shoulders, redirecting our steps to not bump into a few of the other dancing guests, "He thought he was hearing things."
"And then?"
Shrugging again I said, "Not much. We chatted." A slow blush creeped onto my cheeks, "He kissed my hand."
Loki's body became rigid against me, his dancing slowing and his voice stiff, "Did he." My giddy smile dissolved when I heard the trace of jealousy in his voice.
The music abruptly changed, like pages had been added without the musicians' knowledge. The music shifted from the joyful tune they had been playing to a fierce dramatic intro, resembling the beating of war drums before a battle. Loki and I, along with the other patrons, stopped to look at the orchestra to discern what caused the drastic change. The musicians looked dazed, seemingly hypnotized by their own music.
A few gasps and screams drew all of our attention to the top of the stairs, our eyes gravitating to the man with a skull for a face and clothing as red as Satan's burning flesh. His black eyes arrogantly scanned the crowd, the Opéra Populaire's king gazing down at his people.
The crowd silenced, too afraid they would disrespect the monarch by speaking without permission. Erik descended the first flight of stairs, his steps in sync with the measured beat of the drums. With his red cape following behind him like servants crawling after him, he sang to his music, a proud smirk on those lips that had kissed my hand, "Why so silent good Messieurs? Did you think the I had left you for good?" Erik spotted the two terrified managers and gave them an almost flirtatious smile, his attitude matching that of a cat playing with his captured mouse, "Have you missed me good Messieurs? I have written you an opera!" Reaching where the grand staircase split into two other stairways, he stopped, gazing over his horrified yet enraptured audience, "Here I bring the finished score. Don Juan Triumphant!" He threw his life's work to the ground before the managers' feet and drew his sword in one swift motion.
He stood tall, his legs spread wide in a power stance, his arm held high to flaunt his weapon, his chin raised, beaming with pride, "Fondest greetings to you all. A few instructions just before rehearsals start." Erik brought the sword's blade to his other hand, the metal scraping against the leather glove to subtly challenge anyone to defy his commands. My left hand twitched, remembering the feel of those hands when they were ungloved just a few hours ago.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Raoul, his eyes darting around, wildly thinking of a plan to capture the taunting predator. He touched the small of Christine's back to inform her he was sneaking away. But, like the others, her eyes remained glued on the man only she called her Angel.
Erik slowly looked up from his sword, his menacing eyes falling on Carlotta, rooting her to the ground with the daggers in his eyes. He walked over to where she stood, the sword whooshing through the air as he pointed it at her, "Carlotta must be taught to act. Not her normal trick of strutting around the stage." Insulted, Carlotta's mouth dropped open and she rapidly blinked her eyes, attempting to wake up from what she hoped was a nightmare.
Wanting to defend his wife's life, along with her honor, Piangi took a daring step towards the Opera Ghost, only to be stopped by the sword digging into his protruding stomach. With a rumbling chuckle Erik sang, "Our Don Juan must lose some weight. It's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age." Piangi shrunk back down to the step he had come from, easily defeated.
Erik twisted his head to peer over his left shoulder. His green eyes glowed brightly once he focused on the two managers. He sauntered arrogantly over to them, carelessly gesturing with the sword as he went, "And my managers must learn that their place is in an office," he charged forward, nearly causing the managers to fall back from Erik's sudden closeness. Pleased with their reaction, Erik continued softly, "not the arts."
Erik's face fell, becoming hard and serious, "As for our star, Miss Christine Daaé." His head turned, looking like a doll's head that follows you when you trepidatiously walk through a haunted house. He spotted Christine without having to glance around the sea of people. He didn't blink, his eyes never wavered. A smile crept onto his lips, his head tilting unnaturally as he raised into an upright position and sheathed his sword. The tone of the song changed, becoming derisive, mocking, as did his body language, "No doubt she'll do her best. It's true her voice is good. She knows, though should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn. If pride would let her return to me, her teacher." He angrily spit out the last words to Christine and shoved his thumb into his chest, exposing himself as the creator of such a success, wanting the praise he believed he rightfully deserved. His eyes met Christine's, the angry and prideful enactment falling away as he fell deeper into her eyes, "Her teacher." I looked away from the exchange, knowing the secret truth of the real source of her acclaimed voice.
I heard both of their hearts speed up as each of them subconsciously closed the distance between them. They were under each other's spell yet again, drawn to each other like Fate had looped a lasso around them and was drawing it close.
Above, on the second floor, I saw Raoul dash by, his blond head peeking over the edge of the railing to see the status of the situation. When he saw his fiancé under a trance going towards the very man he planned to attack, he abruptly stopped, watching intently. Everyone watched intently. They were all amazing at the lamb bringing the fierce lion to his knees, calming him, sedating him with her presence and her gaze.
Bringing myself to look at the majestic creature I so desired stare longingly at another woman, I noticed a glimmer around Christine's neck. Moving up the stairs her body shifted just right for the ring hanging on a chain around her neck to sparkle in the dazzling lights of the gala. Unfortunately, Erik noticed it, too. It brought him back from the mortal spell Christine had placed on him, and he grabbed the ring that was nestled in the dip of her breasts. Yanking it off of Christine's neck he shook the chain and ring in her face and roared, "Your chains are still mine! You belong to me!"
And just like that, everyone else snapped out of their own trance, a few women screaming at the outburst and scrambling away. Christine stood shocked, her eyes widening like she was confused at how she got to where she stands now.
Raoul sprinted down the steps, hoping to catch the ghost who kept haunting their lives. But by the time the vicomte reached the staircase, Erik was gone, vanishing in a cloud of red fabric and smoke. The only thing that remained was the scattered pages of Don Juan.
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A/N: A belated happy Valentine's Day from Loki and me! xoxo