First is the Worst… (tag: Erik)

[Christine Daaé]

Christine remembered quite distinctly the day which that dreaded thing had come for her in the mail. She had been sitting with Mamma Valerius in her bedroom in the little flat on the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, watching the old woman knit some new project of hers, when the maid brought the mail in. Being in her older age, Madame Valerius would often have Christine read the mail to her, so that she did not have to strain her vision.

There were a couple of letters there from a friend that the old woman had tried to contact, but then there was another thing which immediately caught Christine’s eye. It was a letter from l’Opéra Nationale de Paris, addressed to a Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. The girl attempted to carefully slip the letter away, but it was no use. Her adoptive mother had already caught sight of the thing and insisted that she read it aloud at once!

Christine took a breath as she opened the envelope. After all, perhaps they sent letters to tell people they would not be using them as well…? One could hope, at least. As she opened the letter and read the contents however, she discovered that was far from the case…

August 20^th, 1882

Mademoiselle Daaé,

We are quite pleased to inform you that, based on your audition for us last week, we would like you to come sing for the Opéra Nationale de Paris as a member of our ensemble. We would like to also take this opportunity to remind you that casting is determined from run to run, and that, as a member of our ensemble, we expect that you will be able to fill in a role as an understudy should it be necessary and/or requested of you.
We expect you to come by ten o’clock in the morning on the first of September in order to sign contracts, receive your dressing-room assignments, rehearsal schedule, and have measurements taken for fittings and for our records. You may also wish to take this time to familiarize yourself with the layout of the theatre and its backstage area.
We look forward to having you with our company, and hope to get better acquainted with you in the near future.

Best regards,

Messieurs Debienne and Poligny

Of course, she couldn’t possibly refuse the offer, particularly not since Mamma Valerius knew about it. The little old woman seemed so very excited by the prospect that her daughter was going to be onstage in the national opera company. She kept raving on and on about how very proud her father would have been of her…

Perhaps that was why it bothered her so. Her father would have been proud of her… but he wasn’t there to say it. He never would be… Though that couldn’t be changed now, could it be? It was finished. And with it, she would have preferred the music to have finished as well. It was too painful. It brought back so many old memories…

And now, it was September the first, during the mid-afternoon. Christine had just finished being fitted, and had already received her room assignment, schedule, and music from her meeting with the joint managers. Contracts had been signed, people had been met and now…? Now it was just time for her to be able to settle down a little bit.

When she first entered that dressing-room, it seemed so very desolate. It was a long way from the other dressing rooms, and appeared to have served some other purpose before being converted—perhaps as a sort of storage room. She’d had a small box of things delivered to the opera, to use to try to brighten the place up just a little… not that it really would have helped much. How cheery could one make a place that was a constant reminder of the grave?

She put on the gas and entered the little room, picking up her box and setting it on a small table that was there. It was a rather simply furnished place. There was the little table with a chair, a vanity at which there was one other chair, there were some cupboards, and there was a small inner room with walls of curtains where one could change with more privacy…. And on one of the walls, there was a rather tall full-length mirror—easily the height of a man.

She stood and turned around once, taking it all in, before sighing and opening up her box of possessions. She supposed she was going to be forced to make the best of the situation while it lasted….

[Erik]

Erik reached kept his right hand always poised on his hip whenever he walked around down here in the cellars. There were always curious little ballerinas and drunken stage-hands walking around down here, looking for trouble. Did no one heed the "beware, lest you die" warnings anymore? He sighed. He remembered when he was that curious. It had always gotten him into trouble. Inquisitiveness and curiosity should be avoided, particularly in women. After all, they didn't want to end up like Bluebeard's wives...

Erik chuckled to himself. Bluebeard...the tale had seemed quite frightening when he was a small boy, but now it was just ridiculous. He heard a scuffle ahead of him and to the right. He stepped into the shadows and grabbed the lasso that lay on his right hip. A couple of rats scurried past him, and Erik let go of his breath. If he had any friends, they'd probably say he was paranoid. But really, better to be prepared than caught unaware.

Erik stepped out of the shadow and kept walking. He finally found the trapdoor out of the cellars that led into the wall passages of the first floor after about five more minutes of walking. He pulled himself up and shut the trapdoor behind himself before walking on. He was headed to watch moving day. He liked to listen at the walls and make bets with himself over which of the poor souls would break first. Usually the younger girls would cry out of homesickness. From time to time, a young man would show such weakness and go to the older members for advice. He wondered what sort of sod would bother Carolus Fonta today. Would it be a cocky young man or a weepy excuse of a boy?

This was going to be a fun year. Many of the new applicants looked frailer this year. All this new fashion, no doubt. Arsenic to make you paler, corsets to make you thinner and suck the air out of your lungs, products all over your body and hair...There must be something in the parfum these days.

[Christine Daaé]

There weren’t many things that she had packed into the box, and so consequently, the room remained fairly empty for the time being. Among the things she’d brought with her were a tablecloth, a decorative box, some powder, a pen with ink, some writing paper, and a few framed pictures.

She took them out one by one, hanging the tablecloth over the back of a chair for the time being, and setting the other things atop the vanity… with the exception of one picture, which she continued holding and looking down at as she sat down in the chair that was at the table.

She sighed and traced the edge of the frame with the tip of her right index finger, looking at the image that stared back at her, its once bright and living eyes looking into her dead and spiritless ones. She just say there, staring at him, almost petting the thing as if it were a loyal pet with its head resting in one’s lap.

“Well,” she murmured softly, “She got what she wanted… She’s happy now… I only wish I knew what would make you happy… ” she bit her lips as she continued staring at the picture, and drew her hand away to wipe a tear before it could fall. “You… you would have loved this place, I know you would have. I know you would have…”

[Erik]

Erik walked through the passage quietly, being careful not to bump any walls or make much noise as he walked. True, any noise he did make would be contributed to the Opera Ghost, but Erik didn't want to make a commotion. The less people thought about him, the better. Apparitions, after all, are scarier when you know less about them.

He passed through the backstage areas of the Opera House, monitoring the different sounds through the wall. There were the stage-hands playing "Pass The Bottle"....and the ballerinas chattering away....then the quiet of the storage rooms. And then...talking? But...there shouldn't be any talking. He wasn't at the main dressing room area yet.

Erik stalked the walls until he came to the familiar patch of wall where the talking was coming from. It was a room with a two-way mirror that was probably dusting over by now with its lack of use. Why would they set up anyone back here? Perhaps the company has grown too large...?

[Christine Daaé]

The girls let out another sigh and set the picture in her lap before resting her arms on the table and burying her face to let herself cry for a moment. She sat there like that, for maybe a good ten minutes or so, before she picked her head up again and took the picture off of her lap and pressed it to her heart, cradling it as if it were an infant, and kissed the top of the frame, still crying all the while.

She stood rather abruptly, roughly knocking the chair over on its side and causing the tablecloth to fall off, which she almost immediately kicked away. She then held out the picture in front of her again and crumpled down to her knees, shaking with sobs and looking at the photograph with a pained expression.

“Was I a terrible child? Is that it? Do I have a ‘wicked heart’? Did I not attend every single class, every lesson, no matter how much it hurt to have to think of them? What have I done wrong!? she practically shouted at the picture. Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, looking at it in a sort of frustrated confusion. “You promised me! You promised that it would happen… It’s been more than six years! So why am I still waiting? Did you forget about me? How could you forget your own daughter?”

Her expression and her tears softened once more as she stared down at the photograph with hallowing blue eyes. She was silent for a moment before she began murmuring almost unconsciously, the tale he used to tell her as a child.

“Little Lotte Thought of everything and nothing.
Like a butterfly she flew about in the gold of the sun
In her golden curls she carried the crown of spring
And her eyes were like her soul, so bright blue and clear.
She wheedled her mother, took good care of her doll,
And her Frock, and her little red shoes, and her fiddle,
But most of all loved, when she went to bed,
to hear the Angel of Music…[/i]”

She sighed and went back to delicately tracing the frame with her little frail fingers. Her tears had stopped flowing, and yet her soul remained crying. One could see it if they happened to look in her eyes…

“Oh Daddy… I just don’t understand… You wouldn’t leave me waiting like this… You promised to send the Angel as soon as you were in Heaven… You promised… You promised” She continued repeating this last ‘you promised’ over and over to herself, so softly that it was not above a whisper.

[Erik]

Erik walked up to the two-way mirror. It was the little Swedish girl. She was talking to herself. Now, Erik talked to himself all the time. But he didn't expect others to be so troubled as to talk to themselves...Especially not little, well-off girls. What was she so upset over? She just kept repeating 'You promised, you promised...' Perhaps she'd been wronged by a lover? No, no, there would be much more of a tantrum, he thought. Then what was this?

Erik stayed by the mirror, watching her. She'd mentioned an angel...Perhaps she was praying? People prayed all the time. But this seemed different. She should be weeping, with the tone in her voice. But she wasn't. There were no tears. How strange...how strange indeed...

[Christine Daaé]

She looked down at the picture, silent now, still tracing the frame with her fingers and looking at it longingly. Then, softly, she spoke again. “Oh Daddy… if only you could be here… She just doesn’t understand… I don’t want to sing… Not without you. How can I, really? I just.... Whenever I start, I and up thinking of you… I just don’t understand…”

She sighed and set the portrait up in front of her on the floor and sat there staring at it again. “You’d love this place. You really would… It’s like a palace of music….” She sighed again. “Is that what heaven looks like?”

She waited a moment, as if listening to the thing responding to her. She really wished that it would—that she could hear his voice again—but nothing happened. “Would you sing with me? A lullaby, like you used to?... Please? It would make me so happy if you would… and play too? Here, I’ll start for you:”

And with this, she began to sing… to the picture… or to her father? One wondered really if she were able to distinguish the difference between the two. It was a soft song, quite fragile at first, but it was heart-felt.

Allt under himmelens fäste
Der sitta stjärnor små.
Allt under himmelens fäste
Der sitta stjärnor små…
Den vanen som jag älskat,
Den kan jag aldrig få.
Oh…

[Erik]

Erik's hands twitched slightly. This was something he hadn't seen...Not in anyone in France. The connection with her father...it was still strong. He wondered how long it had been since her father passed. The thought quickly perished, however. He chided himself for bothering himself with her business. After all, what did it matter to him? It absolutely didn't matter. She was a sad girl who missed her father. That was that. He turned, walking away a couple of steps before he heard her.

She started singing. Softly...Erik turned. There she was, on the floor, singing to the portrait. Slowly, Erik returned to the mirror. He certainly hadn't expected this when he'd let her into the company. She...she was doing exactly what he said she could. The emotion in her face matched the emotion in her voice. It intrigued him. It stirred him. It was music...true music.

[Christine Daaé]

Christine stared at the portrait as she sang, almost expecting it to start singing along with her… She of course knew that it couldn’t, but reason never did stop wishful thinking. She reached out and took the thing in her hands again, still looking at it. Perhaps…. Perhaps if she did well… he’d remember and send the Angel down?

Han föll uti mitt tyke
Det rår jag into för
Han föll unti mitt tyke
Det rår jag inte för
Han lofte bli mig trogen
Intill sin blecka dödd
Oh….

Slowly, she was beginning to feel discouraged again. He had promised her! Surely he would not have forgotten her! Surely he still loved her, cared for her… Unless he had never sent her the Angel from heaven because he was not in heaven himself. No, no… that could not be it… could it be?

[Erik]

Erik leaned against the frame of the mirror, listening. Only out of sorrow could she create such art...Perhaps she'll find a teacher. Someone who could help her harness her potential. I could recommend someone, but I don't really know if any of the stuffy teachers in this area could really--

Suddenly, Erik was struck with an idea. A crazy idea, that would probably get him caught and beheaded, but it was the only suitable answer to his musings. He'd teach her! It was really the only proper answer. After all, he was a musician, was he not? He was perfectly capable of taking on a student! But...but how would he talk to her? He certainly couldn't do it now. Not under these conditions...

And as suddenly as the thought came to Erik, it vanished. It was only wishful thinking on his part, that he could teach anyone. He'd give her the name of a teacher once he found one suitable enough. After all, how can one teach if one cannot show their...

Erik's jaw tightened with the thought. He tried not to think about his visage often. The thoughts only ended in him distressing and spending his otherwise precious time thinking over things he could not change.

He crossed his arms, listening to the little Swedish girl. Ha! Teacher indeed. Erik would go back to his little house later, pop open a bottle of wine and laugh about how such a stupid thought had entered his head in the first place.

[Christine Daaé]

By the third verse of the song, her strength had begun to fail her yet again. It was becoming more and more difficult to continue singing as reality slowly took its course and sank in. No matter what she did, he wasn’t going to be there to sing and to play with her any more.

“Och sen så for han ifrån mig
och sen fick jag en an
Och sen så for han ifrån mig
och sen fick jag en an
Jag fick den jag ej ville
och sorgen heter han[/i]”

She was unable to make it to the ‘Oh’ of the refrain, however, before she began choking on her tears, which had begun to flow afresh. She clutched the photo to her breast again and closed her eyes, burying her face in her knees.

[Erik]

Yes...Yes, Erik would find her a teacher. As the girl finished singing, he couldn't help but stay for a moment. She wept openly over the picture, and after that beautiful little song of hers, he didn't feel like she really should be crying...She should be drying her tears...

Erik ripped his eyes away from the sight. He should have been at the front of the opera house ages ago. This was only distracting him...He gave one last look to the girl before turning away from her completely and heading off to his original plans.

He pondered...did he know any good teachers in Paris? He'd have to do some research, certainly...yes, he'd infiltrate the records of the opera house, compare notes on which teachers had taught which singers, and if he found good results, he'd send the girl the name of the teacher. Perfect! Now, off to have a bit of fun...