Death Awakens
folder
M through R › Phantom of the Opera
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
18
Views:
4,094
Reviews:
14
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Phantom of the Opera
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
18
Views:
4,094
Reviews:
14
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own The Phantom of the Opera movie(s), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Angel of Music
Chapter 6:
Erik was seated at his organ, his shirt clinging to his damp skin from his day’s activities. He had spent the entirety of that week repairing his rooms. The mob that had stampeded through and his own emotional outburst had left the place in shambles. The stillness of his rooms was comforting, soothing. Even the presence of that girl, Lila, did not affect his contemplation. She had been sleeping since he had brought her down from the opera house. Her injuries seemed to be more critical than he had originally believed. She slept fitfully, tossing and turning. The burns on her leg had become infected, giving her fever to add to her other injuries. Erik had done his best to help her, changing the bandages on her body, cleaning the wounds. After the infection had healed, it was obvious to Erik that there would be a hideous scar left stretching from the top of her thigh to the middle of her calf in an angry line, but her leg itself was safe from any further harm. He had left her then, coming at the end of the night to change her, feed her, but she did not seem to wake, and oftentimes rejected the lean gruel he would gently pass between her lips. After a time, Erik had conceded defeat, deciding it was best to let her rest at the moment, and had returned to the task of cleaning his rooms. Returning every now and then to check on her sleeping form.
Everything seemed to be in order now, and he was finally able to return to attention to his music. His original desire to leave Paris had completely been erased from his mind as Erik lovingly repaired the damage to his organ. Loose manuscripts, sketches, and sheet music had all been carefully returned to their casings, memories flooding the man that now lay, fingers tentatively stroking the organ keys.
Finally after a breath, he played a minor chord, rich and full, its warmth pulsing through him. Invigorated, he played another, and another, striking key after key as the music swelled around him. Catching a melody in the jumble of notes reverberating through his mind, he swiftly began to play a mournful, sweet hymn that vibrated outwards, through the floor, through the cavernous depths of the opera house.
It has been told to many children sitting at the feet of their grandparents years later, that on one particular day in Paris, the whole earth seemed to quake, filling the soul with such love and sorrow and hope and loss that one could do nothing else but weep.
The last of his strength spent, Erik sat on his organ bench, listening to the heavy pant of his breath, the dull thud of his heartbeat mixing with the last notes of his song as they echoed softly into the darkness around him. He closed his eyes and sighed quietly, calm and at peace at last. And then off in the distance, there came a sweet voice…
“Angel of music, guide and guardian. Give to me your glory…”
Emerald eyes flying open, Erik felt his breath catch. Was it Christine? Was she returning to him at last?
“I only wish, I knew your secret…”
No, the voice did not belong to Christine. It was lower, richer—velvet honey compared to the lilting bell tones that his dear Christine possessed. His Christine, even when she had taken everything away.
Whose voice was he hearing?
A pale figure stood at the edge of the lake, facing him. Her hair hung lank against her shoulders. She was so pale and thin, cheeks sunken in around her face where it should have stood soft, rosy and supple. Deep purple circles surrounding her eyes--her eyes! They seemed to bore into his very soul. The pupils enlarged to such extent that Erik felt his breath catch as he stared into the inky blackness of her eyes. They did not seem to focus on him though, but looking through him, beyond him, beyond the very room itself.
She wavered a little, and Erik feared she would fall into the water, but she strode forward, slowly.
“Erik, please…” she whispered before she fell to her knees, head lolling forward. And then all was silent.
Erik knelt next to the woman, tilting her head back to look more closely at her face. The eyes were closed now, her breath whispering against his hand softly, evenly. It was Lila.
She was asleep.
Gently, he scooped the woman into his strong arms, and walked back to the room with the swan bed. He laid her down, and tucked in the covers, stepping back to stare at the sleeping woman.
How did she know his name?
Erik was seated at his organ, his shirt clinging to his damp skin from his day’s activities. He had spent the entirety of that week repairing his rooms. The mob that had stampeded through and his own emotional outburst had left the place in shambles. The stillness of his rooms was comforting, soothing. Even the presence of that girl, Lila, did not affect his contemplation. She had been sleeping since he had brought her down from the opera house. Her injuries seemed to be more critical than he had originally believed. She slept fitfully, tossing and turning. The burns on her leg had become infected, giving her fever to add to her other injuries. Erik had done his best to help her, changing the bandages on her body, cleaning the wounds. After the infection had healed, it was obvious to Erik that there would be a hideous scar left stretching from the top of her thigh to the middle of her calf in an angry line, but her leg itself was safe from any further harm. He had left her then, coming at the end of the night to change her, feed her, but she did not seem to wake, and oftentimes rejected the lean gruel he would gently pass between her lips. After a time, Erik had conceded defeat, deciding it was best to let her rest at the moment, and had returned to the task of cleaning his rooms. Returning every now and then to check on her sleeping form.
Everything seemed to be in order now, and he was finally able to return to attention to his music. His original desire to leave Paris had completely been erased from his mind as Erik lovingly repaired the damage to his organ. Loose manuscripts, sketches, and sheet music had all been carefully returned to their casings, memories flooding the man that now lay, fingers tentatively stroking the organ keys.
Finally after a breath, he played a minor chord, rich and full, its warmth pulsing through him. Invigorated, he played another, and another, striking key after key as the music swelled around him. Catching a melody in the jumble of notes reverberating through his mind, he swiftly began to play a mournful, sweet hymn that vibrated outwards, through the floor, through the cavernous depths of the opera house.
It has been told to many children sitting at the feet of their grandparents years later, that on one particular day in Paris, the whole earth seemed to quake, filling the soul with such love and sorrow and hope and loss that one could do nothing else but weep.
The last of his strength spent, Erik sat on his organ bench, listening to the heavy pant of his breath, the dull thud of his heartbeat mixing with the last notes of his song as they echoed softly into the darkness around him. He closed his eyes and sighed quietly, calm and at peace at last. And then off in the distance, there came a sweet voice…
“Angel of music, guide and guardian. Give to me your glory…”
Emerald eyes flying open, Erik felt his breath catch. Was it Christine? Was she returning to him at last?
“I only wish, I knew your secret…”
No, the voice did not belong to Christine. It was lower, richer—velvet honey compared to the lilting bell tones that his dear Christine possessed. His Christine, even when she had taken everything away.
Whose voice was he hearing?
A pale figure stood at the edge of the lake, facing him. Her hair hung lank against her shoulders. She was so pale and thin, cheeks sunken in around her face where it should have stood soft, rosy and supple. Deep purple circles surrounding her eyes--her eyes! They seemed to bore into his very soul. The pupils enlarged to such extent that Erik felt his breath catch as he stared into the inky blackness of her eyes. They did not seem to focus on him though, but looking through him, beyond him, beyond the very room itself.
She wavered a little, and Erik feared she would fall into the water, but she strode forward, slowly.
“Erik, please…” she whispered before she fell to her knees, head lolling forward. And then all was silent.
Erik knelt next to the woman, tilting her head back to look more closely at her face. The eyes were closed now, her breath whispering against his hand softly, evenly. It was Lila.
She was asleep.
Gently, he scooped the woman into his strong arms, and walked back to the room with the swan bed. He laid her down, and tucked in the covers, stepping back to stare at the sleeping woman.
How did she know his name?