You Deceived Me…
Phantom Phanfic
Summary: True, he had deceived her, he would admit, telling her he was the Angel of Music sent by her father. His deception ran deep, but he found hers ran just as deep… EC I don't like Raoul. Evil fop…
Chapter 1: Denied me and betrayed me…
Angel of Music, you deceived me…
More deception? More violence?
Even now, he heard their voices. Even after one year since that fateful, condemning day. Whispering to him, speaking to him of his deception, his lies. He could remember it all as if it had happened yesterday. But most of all, he remembered her words, her face, her voice…
Damn her… he cursed silently.
Even after one year, she wouldn't leave him along. He couldn't forget her; he knew he'd never be able too.
Especially after that…
After she'd kissed him…
He could still feel her touch, the soft press of her lips against his. How her touch haunted him!
For that one moment in his life, Erik had felt bliss, a taste of the Heaven that had denied him. Heaven had come to him for that one moment in the form of this beautiful angel that stood before him, kissing him. And then it had all been ripped away from him cruelly, leaving him filled with more longing than before. He had been in Heaven for a single moment before he was plunged into a Hell worse than the one before, as if the angels sensed his unholy presence in their realm of glory and had banished him for trespassing. For one moment in his life though, he had believed his angel was his.
He laughed bitterly at himself and his foolishness.
No, his angel was no longer his; had she ever been?
He would have been able to tell himself bitterly that no, she had never been and might have gotten on with his miserable existence and tried to pick up the pieces of his shattered life if it hadn't been for that unguarded look in her eyes after she had kissed him. He had seen it, briefly for but a moment, but it had been there. He had seen love and passion in her eyes. Love and passion for him. He had told himself many a time that he had just imagined it, but he knew that wasn't true. It had been real, the intensity of the look burned into his soul forever.
He cursed her again, silently.
When he had looked into her eyes before, he had seen only what she wanted him to see, always guarded after he had returned her.
After she had seen his face… he thought bitterly.
That look he would never forget. He would carry it with him to his grave.
But then, then she'd denied him again! Always denying and betraying! Leaving him unsatisfied and longing for more…
Angel of Music!
You denied me,
turning from true beauty…
Angel of Music!
Do not shun me…
Come to your strange
Angel…
he sang softly, gradually crescendoing as his voice echoed his anger and his longing. Even long after he had stopped, the empty Opera House, burned, broken, and shattered – Not unlike his heart – echoed with his voice. He then thought he heard her voice echoing back in perfect harmony.
Angel of Music!
I denied you,
turning from true beauty…
Angel of Music!
My protector…
Come to me, strange
Angel…
He always heard her echoing back in his head.
And he'll always be there,
singing songs in my head…
he'll always be there,
singing songs in my head…
he thought, mockingly.
But she had had called him her protector. Why?
It frightens me…If he frightened her so, then why had she called him her protector, her angel? Why had she kissed him?…
He threw an abandoned candelabrum into the wall, the dull thud echoing in the silence, helping to calm his anger.
Damn her… he thought.
But he couldn't stay angry with her for long, he never could. He loved her… Even after a year had passed, he still loved her.
He managed to calm himself some, looking over the ruins of his home.
The mob had not spared him and had gone to pillaging some of his treasures and belongings. The fire had destroyed the rest. The only room that suffered little or no damage was the Louis-Philippe room. He magnificent organ was a mere pile of metal and debris, the keys scattered everywhere, burnt and blackened. His coffin was a pile of ashes, the swan bed broken in half, burnt and ripped. The sheets were burned and smelled of smoke. All the mirrors were shattered. Most of the candelabras were bent in some way, either from the fire, the mob, or himself. Most from the latter. The few in descent condition had candles lit in them, casting little light into the eerie gloom. Even his boat had burned and he'd had to make a new one to cross the lake.
But the Louis-Philippe room had survived the mob, the fire, and his anger. It remained relatively intact. Before her dressing room had burned down, he'd taken her things there. She hadn't come back for them. He had treasured her things. They brought to him both comfort and pain. A few of her dresses, a hand mirror, a pair of old ballet shoes, a hair ribbon, a pair of gloves, and a portrait of her and her father.
His music could no longer comfort him, both her and the fire had made sure of that. The fire had destroyed his beautiful organ and all the instruments left in the Opera House. It had also burned his music. It laid in piles of ashes, charred beyond recognition. He was stripped of everything but his voice.
And she had taken the little comfort he had in that as well! Whenever he sang, he heard her voice. She was always there when he sang, singing with him. She had been his inspiration, his pupil, and his mind would never let him forget that. Her voice was forever ingrained into his mind. He always remembered her betrayal in Don Juan Triumphant, when she ripped off his mask… When he'd touched her…
Always he felt her presence, longing for her warmth, her touch, her lips on his… He longed to hold her again, to touch her as he had in Don Juan Triumphant, to reawaken that passion between them during his Opera…
He could hear her voice as if in reply to his thoughts, singing in his mind, the voice as fresh as when she'd sang it. He closed his eyes and saw her there on stage with him again, singing his Don Juan Triumphant.
You have brought me
to that moment
where words run dry,
to that moment
where speech
disappears
into silence,
silence…
I have come here,
hardly knowing
the reason why…
In my mind,
I've already
imagined our
bodies entwining,
defenseless and silent –
and now I am
here with you:
no second thoughts,
I've decided,
decided…
Past the point
of no return –
no going back now:
our passion-play
has now, at last,
begun…
Past all thought
of right or wrong –
one final question:
how long should we
two wait, before
we're one…?
When will the blood
begin to race,
the sleeping bud
burst into bloom?
When will the flames,
at last, consume
us…?
He opened his eyes, the memory receding again. The music of the night had truly ended that night…
And as he gazed at his reflection in the shattered mirror, he knew then that he had to know. He had to know if that passion was real, or if she was a better actress than he thought…
He had to know or she would never leave his mind. He had not forgotten her betrayel on stage or that snowy day on the roof with the Vicomte, but that look in her eyes as she kissed him, as she sung on stage with him…
He had to know. True, he had deceived her, he would admit, telling her he was the Angel of Music sent by her father. His deception ran deep, but he found hers ran just as deep if that look in her eyes was real…
Gathering his cloak and making himself presentable, he quickly made the journey over the lake on his new boat and made his way to the mirror. Stepping through, he stopped for a moment in the place that had come to be both his sanctuary and his own private Hell. His fingers trailed over the mirror, leaving finger marks in the dust before he turned and left her dressing room and the Opera House for the first time in a year. It was a cold night that met him as he made his way through the shadows to a nearby stable, intent on stealing a horse. He had heard she'd moved in with her husband, the Vicomte. The thought made him choke and sob with bitterness.
He had told himself it would be a cold day in Hell before he saw her again. And it was a cold day in the Hellish nightmare of his own making that was his life…
A young, blonde woman and an older woman walked down the street towards their house, conversing quietly.
"Do you think he's still alive, maman?" The younger woman ask quietly. The older woman sighs and shakes her head. "I don't know Meg, I don't know… I hope he is…" The girl, now identified as Meg, nodded. "I do too, maman… Do you think he might try to take Christine ever again?" Meg asked tentatively.
The older woman was about to reply when a shadow in a dark cloak riding a black horse swiftly passed them silently. A flash of white and then only the sound of hoof beats drawing farther and farther away. They now knew the answer. The Phantom of the Opera was alive…
Erik rode the horse he'd stolen through the empty, deserted streets of Paris under the moonless night sky, his cloak billowing out behind him as the wind rush against him, as if trying to stop him. He pressed his steed faster until it seemed the horse was flying, barely touching the ground and everything around them blurred slightly. The cold wind bit into him, but he ignored it. Nothing would stop him tonight. Nothing would deter him from his course. He had to see her, needed to see her again.
He had to see his Christine again…
Hello. Good or no? Suggestions are welcome as is constructive criticism. Hope you liked it. This is one of my first Phantom Phanfics, though not my true first. It's the first one I've ever shown anybody else though. No rough language, as usual, or the favor will be returned to you as usual, unless you're like some of those people who put 'Damn that was good!' or something like that. I had that question once. Just no cussing me or anybody else out. Rating may change to M later. No I don't own Phantom of the Opera. And I don't own Erik. I'm just borrowing him. With no intent of returning him. Please R&R. Fay.