Je Veux Renaître (Érik)

[Marguerite DuBois]

Marguerite's lips parted. Air flooded her lungs. Blank, cool oxygen...but...but that had never happened before...She fluttered her eyelids. Something created a strange tingling sensation on her face....she brought her hand up and brushed it away. It was her hair...She could feel everything, stronger than usual! She sat up from her chair. Had she been asleep? No, no, she didn't sleep...The brocade of the chair was soft beneath her fingers. Her dress rustled and crinkled in the most delightful way...the brush of fabric against fabric...Her petticoats itched at her stockings, so she stood, readjusting her dress.

Érik...where was Érik? She took in another sweet deep breath of air, then set off around the little house that she knew all too well. Their little house on the lake. She smiled faintly, moving from the sitting room to the hallway and down, to Érik's room. The air was warm and humid down here, in the house. She'd never much noticed it before, and it was strange that she should notice it now, but she thought nothing of it.

All of her thoughts extended to her beloved Érik.

[Erik Spectre]

He paced. And not just any kind of pacing, no. It was frantic and fast, his feet blindly placed back and forth with no thought as to their movement. His hands twitched and he shook them, flying this way and that. He rubbed his mouth and his neck and his knuckles and his head and the bridge of his missing nose and clasped them behind his back. All the while he spoke quietly, inaudible words in his native French, though he'd heard many of the people around the manor speaking English. There was no one to listen to him anyhow.

Gone. That was one word that was translated into many languages in his mind. She was gone, and he couldn't find her. The house wouldn't let him find her. He'd attempted many times at traversing the grounds, but he could not find where she was hiding. He thought many of the worst things imaginable, including that she might be dead. Well that just wouldn't do! She'd have to be alive, because she was going to marry him. He'd even picked out the date, late in October. It was just after her birthday. She'd appreciate that he'd remembered... if he could just find her!

He'd also thought of that little bug. Yes, the Vicomte. He could have taken her, thinking that her professed love for Érik was a delusion and that she needed help. If anyone was going to help Christine, it would be him, not that young, inexperienced man.

His left hand shaded his brow as he crouched down, clutching his stomach. A splitting migraine was crawling about his skull from the conflicting music in his head. There was music always playing there, and it always knew his mood. Now the eternal melodies were crashing against each other. Wedding bells, anger, a thirst for blood, longing, denial, love triumphant... All represented and clawing for top bar. He heard nothing else...

That was until the footsteps. The music ceased to a dull hum of something electrifying as he looked up to the open door, his eyes widened. Normally he closed his door... Normally he would recognize footsteps.

He slithered to the wall on the side where the person was approaching, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his lasso. He hid in the shadows, making sure his presence was not known. Érik knew it couldn't have been Christine. Her footsteps were light, but not that light. If it weren't for his excellent hearing he might not have noticed them at all. If it was Daroga he would most certainly have been heard a mile away. Had it been the Vicomte, he might have already made his presence known, considering the boy liked to waste no time in challenging Érik's authority. There was no one else who knew his lair...

Two steps closer, and then he lunged!

A mass of sun kissed blonde hair floated about his hands as they wrapped the rope around the throat. From what he could feel it was long and elegant, but most definitely not Christine's. Her struggles would be in vain, in fact he could easily snap the intruder's neck if he wanted to. But he did so love to watch them slowly fall to his mercy...

Suddenly as she whipped her head around he caught a glimpse of her eyes, and his grip immediately slackened. He'd seen those eyes before... But... only in a dream. Impossible!

He pulled the rope over her head and through her tumultuous hair and stepped back, aghast. He blinked three times, unable to believe what he was seeing, as well as realizing he was entirely maskless. Again, this was extremely impossible!

"M-Marguerite?"

[Marguerite DuBois]

Marguerite turned, smiling. "Érik! Good Lord, you gave me a fright, sneaking up on me like that." She cocked her head, taking a good look at the man before her. Tall and thin, just what she loved, with his sharp features and beautiful piercing eyes...She loved the colour of his eyes. They'd change sometimes, to different shades of gold, but they always retained a little of the bright amber that was so prevalent in her thoughts of him.

"I thought you'd be in here." She reached out and took his hand, squeezing the fingers. Her eyebrows knitted together slightly as she noticed the look on his face. "Is something the matter? Are you alright, darling?"

She wouldn't be able to bear it if someone had hurt him....She'd never let anyone get away with it.

[Erik Spectre]

Érik was aghast at the sight of her. He hadn't seen her in years, and suddenly she was here in front of him, and dare he say it... real?! This couldn't possibly be!

Darling, she called him darling... And spoke so kindly, and squeezed his fingers! He was afraid he might combust from the excitement and the shock of her being here. He looked down in fright at the cold, delicate petals that they were. In his hands he looked as if he could crush them. His eyes were as wide as saucers.

"You... I... You... You shouldn't... be here? Or should you, I...?" He looked up and turned slowly to the center of the room. He charged forward and resumed his pacing.

Érik began to whisper to himself as he stared at the ground, avoiding looking at the girl. "Marguerite is not real, Marguerite is an illusion, Érik has Christine, that's right! Érik has Christine, Marguerite is an illusion..." He looked up to see if she was still there, and was disappointed when she was. "If you're here then Christine must be dead!"

He sped toward her, taking her by the arms and shaking her. "Is Christine dead!? Am I alone again?!" he shouted. Érik was not stupid, he knew that Marguerite would always comfort him in his time of need. He was just scared, that was all...

"That's why Marguerite is blonde," he said mostly to himself. "Marguerite is blonde because Christine is blonde... I like blonde." His eyes drifted down and he let go of her, turning and pacing again. He licked his lips and his hands fidgeted behind his back. He murmured to himself, eyes darting back and forth between what he knew was real and what he wasn't sure.

[Marguerite DuBois]

Marguerite furrowed her brow. "But Érik, I AM real...." Christine...he kept mentioning Christine. GOD, she hated that woman! The Christine tormented her poor Érik, always made him second guess himself. And then she had to fix whatever that idiot soprano had started! She felt like the third wheel, like she was second best ALWAYS to that little child!

It would always make her fume, whenever he mentioned the little blonde nightmare. That girl was trying to take her place, she knew it! "Érik, please...look at me, darling...?" She reached out to him, trying to touch his arm while he paced like a furious tiger. She hated it when he'd get in these sorts of moods. He'd be confused, angry, and start saying things he didn't mean...

Poor Érik...how tormented he must feel....Her poor, unhappy husband...

[Erik Spectre]

Before Marguerite could say any more, Érik's hand was wrapped tightly around her dainty little wrist. His poor little "wife" had problems with blood circulation, did she not? "Will you desist with your incessant worrying! It grates my ears!" This would silence her so that he could think! If she wouldn't stop talking, how was he supposed to make sense of the situation? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

After a few moments of standing holding her wrist and breathing heavily through his... mouth... Érik opened his eyes and peered at her. "Marguerite," he said in a clear voice, his former agitation completely gone. "You startled me. You know I do not like to be startled. But I will forgive you in this instance, because your presence here should be..." He let go of her wrist, turning his back to her and grimacing slightly. "... Cause for celebration!"

He whipped around and took her hands more gently than before. "Why, it's quite the miracle that you're here! Look at you, real, fresh and new! Like you've sprung from a plastic mold!" Almost as abruptly as he turned, his face fell emotionless, and he moved past her. Érik sat at his organ and began to play a somber and melancholy tune. He did not speak again.

[Marguerite DuBois]

Marguerite shut her mouth quickly once Erik grabbed a hold of her wrist. If he squeezed her wrist hard enough for a time, she'd fall unconscious. Best to keep quiet...let him think...just let him think...When he finally let go of her, she sighed. She didn't realize that she'd held her breath. He kept turning away from her and turning back. Was he quite alright? Perhaps he was stressed. Yes, that must be it. Stressed from a long day, from his thoughts, from his genius.

He took Marguerite's hands again, but gentler this time. Kinder. She smiled at him, but it didn't seem to cheer him up one bit. He moved past her, and played something on the organ, but it didn't really sound celebratory...She moved up behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders for a moment.

"Everything alright, dear?" Marguerite gave him a moment to answer. He said nothing. She moved away from him, back to the doorway. Usually, when he turned his back on her like that, it meant that he wanted to be left alone to his thoughts. She'd ask him later, though. She wanted to know what was on his mind. Her poor husband...What was he thinking in that marvellous mind of his?

[Erik Spectre]

When she touched his shoulders Érik did not pause in his music. He was still without his mask, so indeed his emotions spilled across his face. Had it been Christine behind him, or anyone else for that matter he would have stiffened or gasped, but no, it was only Marguerite.

He did not love Marguerite, never had, and probably never will. She was an object to take care of, and for her to take care of him. A companion, if you will... A simple minded one who couldn't talk back to him. Érik raised his shoulders and slid them from her hands, though she walked away in any case. A thought flashed in his mind... 'I am no longer in control of her.' If she really was real, then she would eventually see the egregious man that he was.

His playing became more erratic and upsetting. He flinched and recoiled his head at his own thoughts. No, he didn't care. What did he care for? He had Christine... no... she was gone. He had to find her. She was evading him again, he knew it. This time he did not have the advantage of secret passageways, two-way mirrors and eyes all over the opera house. He was out of his element in the manor, and what if he never found her? What if she'd run away?

Well that's preposterous. She'd never run away from him! She wouldn't dare try, she knew how testy he could be when she stayed away to long. She was kidnapped! By the rat man! Yes, that was it! Oh, he would find him, strangle him, mangle him, gut him, contort his flesh until he no longer looked human!

Érik stood abruptly, banging his fists on the keys of his organ. A cacophonous sound issued from the pipes and rattled the glass and wood about the house. If he startled Marguerite, he didn't care, in fact he'd forgotten her presence in the doorway. His mind was focused solely on the rat man! Perhaps if he led him to the torture chamber... The blistering heat would do the man well, he trusted. Wouldn't Christine applaud his rescuing her, for the second time!

... Or... would she chastise him for murdering again? Érik sat, his body and fists growing slack as the notes died to a muted humming. Yes... Christine valued human life. She would implore him to spare the rat man, no matter how awful he'd been to her. With a moan, Érik's hands ran across his skull, his elbows resting on two or three lower keys that soon came to rest, as his foot was gone from the pedal.

"Everything is ending..." he whispered. To Marguerite? No, simply to himself, to reaffirm his tragedy. "I cannot win... I always win!"

If she was really captured by the rat man again, he would find her... But something told him she was not. Something told him she was hiding from him! She was probably happier that way, probably safer from his wrath... What was he to do if he could not have her?

Suddenly, in his now agonizing silence, he heard his poor little wife's breathing. He shot out his left hand, beckoning her closer with a motion of his fingers. "Marguerite," he groaned. "Come." He continued to reach out his hand, hoping she'd take it and exhaust what doubts and fears he still held in his shaking body.

[Marguerite DuBois]

Marguerite immediately stepped next to her husband, looking up at him. She entwined her fingers with his own, feeling dwarfed by him, but feeling at peace. She stayed silent. He liked having his thoughts to himself, and it wasn't right that she interrupt him while he was thinking.

Gently, she placed her other hand on top of the hand she was already holding. It was the closest to a hug she could give him without invading his personal space. She didn't want to anger him any further than she must have...He wouldn't have burst out at her like that if she didn't do something to merit it...

So she stayed there, awaiting his word to do anything else, but revelling in the contact that he allowed her to give.

[Erik Spectre]

Érik's woes were etched across his face, as he raised his head as she entwined her fingers through his. He looked up at her, her hair shimmering in the gaslight, and was immediately reminded of Christine's golden locks. Marguerite had been brunette once, and before that a ginger... His constant companion through the years... Why did looking at her now make such great pains grow in his heart?

Marguerite was a simple-minded imp, to be sure. However, she was his only source of comfort for a long time... and truly, he needed to be comforted now. "I am sad, dearest." His fingers shifted in her hand, and without warning, he let go and leaned his entire weight against her torso. His arms wrapped around her, and he gave a rather loud sob. He was even surprised at himself and his forwardness, but at long last, he gave a sigh of relief. If he closed his eyes long enough, he could imagine Christine's arms around him...