Erik Spectre
Don Juan Triumphant
One must get used to everything in life, even eternity...
Posts: 87
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Post by Erik Spectre on Jan 22, 2013 20:31:01 GMT -5
He tried to focus on the way up to the surface, but Érik's mind kept wandering to the woman he left waiting at the bottom of the stairwell. His steps were sporadic, and he kept turning back and looking down into the darkness, his fingers tapping the inside of the sweating palms of his hands. They were beginning to get uncomfortable, so he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of gloves. Unfortunately they were not the normal leather ones he did business in, but his good white ones. He chided himself for picking the wrong suit, rolling his eyes and focusing his sights on the world above. He licked his dry lips and murmured incoherent things, now taking two steps at a time so that he might make it to the top.
Though Érik's eyes glowed brightly in the dark, they glazed over as his mind strayed to her. It was not until he practically tripped into the hallway of the ground floor that he snapped out of his daydreams. This was not like him, being so out of control of his body. Was this what love did to men? Made them silly little schoolgirls who learned nothing but to flutter their eyes and speak demurely to those that they loved? He shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it as he stalked through the halls, hunting for the kitchen. As he strolled with his hands behind his back he admired the architecture of the place, though he could tell these back hallways were in poor repair.
Whoever had built the place, however, knew what they were doing. It was the size and grandeur of a castle, but still had a touch of modesty that made it seem like a home. A home was not something he was used to... His abode on the lake was nothing more than a place he could live and die in. This manor... Suppose it was calling to him? Suppose he might stay here, and not return to Paris...? After all, he had stolen the Opera's leading lady from it's very stage, so he doubted he could return at all without causing a ruckus... This way, Christine and he could start over, build a new life together. Perhaps they could even manage this house! He would treat her like the queen, like the goddess she was meant to be...
With these new, truly happy thoughts in his mind, Érik began to have a bounce in his step, and he swung his arms a bit more gaily than usually. He whistled a happy tune and felt like he was normal for a change. He was just a man who was walking to the kitchen of his house, fetching his wife something to eat. What a... calming notion!
At last, he found the dining hall and kitchen, which were a bit closer to the foyer than he would have liked. It was so far away from Christine that he would have to hurry to prepare her what she needed. He made sure no one was around and rummaged through the pantry. All of the food was labeled in English, so he assumed they were in England, knowing no castles existed in America. Some of the food was very strange, and packaged oddly. The soups had colorful labels, the snacks were contained in plastic, and the names of things were all so foreign to him. What was a "jammy dodger?" He took one of the soup cans called "cream of chicken" and set it on the counter. There was an odd tab on the top, and upon reading the directions he "popped" it. His eyes widened, but he thought it was a very interesting invention! He dumped the top of the can into the trash and procured a pot to cook the soup in.
Érik did not normally cook for himself, usually being able to sustain on food only twice a week, if at all. However, cooking for Christine was always an absolute adventure! He realized that cooking was like composing music; ingredients were the instruments, the pot was the staff, the measurements were the notes, and the finished product was a grand masterpiece! Érik took spices from their rack and proceeded to dump them into the boiling pot at precise dosages. As he looked through the cabinets, stirring the food every few seconds, he noticed that in one there was a vast amount of medicinal substances. They were, once again, in plastic bottles. He looked at each of their labels, their real, appropriate names foreign to him. However, he read of some of their uses and found one that was a light painkiller.
An idea popped into his head. No doubt Mademoiselle's mind was turbulent... This would be just what Christine needed! It said to submerge the capsules in water and be administered once they were dissolved. She did usually so hate to take what he prescribed to her for headaches, so perhaps this would ease her mind. He returned to the bubbling pot and let it cook for a minute more, stirring it as he turned the bottle around in his hand.
When it was done, Érik found a bowl and dumped the contents of his pot into it, stirring it and smelling the rich aromas wafting from it. He could tell Christine would like it! Chicken was her favorite, after all... He found a tray hanging on the wall and set out a mat, a napkin and spoon, a small plate to rest the bowl on, and filled a translucent pink glass with water. He took two of the pills and dropped them into the drink, taking a strange plastic stirrer from the counter and letting it dissolve the drugs into the liquid evenly. At last, Erik fetched two or three tea bags of his favorite brew and stuffed them in his pocket, saving that drink for later when Christine would awake. Slowly he picked up the tray and carefully carried it to the door, opening the swinging entrance with his back. He hoped the soup would not cool down by the time he reached his house, but he could always reheat it on his own stove...
Suddenly, his eyes caught the dining room table. They softened, and he set the tray down on the stained, finished wood. There were white roses decorating the table, quite fresh from the looks of them. Érik smiled and strode to the windowsill, where another set of roses had turned black and decayed. He dumped the vase and took it back to the tray, wipping the outside with his gloves and plucking two flowers from the larger vase. He set the flowers inside and went back to his journey to his house.
The ghost walked through the halls at a much faster pace than before, though the water and soup did not spill one drop. He descended the stairwell a little easier now that he was returning to the woman he loved.
When he reached the door at the bottom (whose numbering 1911 still confused him greatly; was it the year he was supposed to die had he stayed in Paris...? he shuddered at the thought), he balanced the tray on one hand and retrieved his key, turning it in the lock. He did not hear Christine about, but she might have been asleep. He closed the door and with a flick of his hand placed his hat on the stand and his cloak on its rack. He took the tray with both hands and walked quietly to the room, so as not to disturb her.
When he entered, his eyes widened. Christine was laying on her bed alright, but not the conventional way. "Christine, what in heaven's name are you doing? Sulking like a little girl?" He set the tray on her nightstand and raised an eyebrow, his hands on his hips. "Are you alright? Has my leaving upset you greatly?" He looked to the tray and gestured to it. "I have brought you soup, and some water like you asked. I hope you enjoy them." He did not mention the flowers, though he blushed underneath his mask at the thought.
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Christine Daaé
The Swedish Nightingale and Fairy of the North
If when the time comes, I refuse to go with you, well then, Raoul, you must carry me off by force!
Posts: 1,592
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Post by Christine Daaé on Jan 29, 2013 19:00:05 GMT -5
As Christine sat, she took out the ring again, her mind lost in thought of how she could possibly go about trying to return to Raoul in time so that something might be done about their plight. It had been so long that she wasn’t certain whether or not anything could be done… She feared that it were possible she’d seen her beloved fiancé for the last time, back when she was in Paris and living with her Mamma Valérius, waiting for and preparing for the elopement, and for a certain article which she was now sure would no longer be published.
Érik is dead…
Such a statement could be no further from the truth, for she’d seen him quite alive and well, to both her relief and to her own dismay. No, she would not have been happy to see him dead – not after all that he’d done to help her find her art once more – but what she had been happy with was the thought that she could live in peace and love as she pleased. It had been something which she’d never expected to be able to do, even before Érik… After all, the difference in classes had already taken care of any hope for her and Raoul to marry.
But now… now she’d thought there had actually been a chance for them… They both had. As she stared at the little ring, she wondered what Raoul was doing, whether sitting awaiting execution, or out searching for her everywhere he possibly could. Flashes of him being led to the guillotine still invaded her thoughts, despite how desperately she attempted to push them away.
Tears began to form again in her once clear blue eyes which were now clouded with worry. Her entire body trembled with the thoughts. Raoul was a good man. His intentions had never been to desert his country… No. His intentions had always been to guard her… to guide her… to love her… Why was love something that seemed so dangerous?
With salty pearls of tears still running down her ivory cheeks, she placed her arms out and collapsed to her side so that she was half sitting on and half lying on the bed. She didn’t know how much time she had left, assuming there was any left at all.
She stared at the little ring with teary eyes as she lay there. What seemed like an eternity passed as the silence crept onward, and she continued waiting for Érik to return to the house on the lake. All she could hope for was that he would have pity and take her back, even if only to see her husband-to-be one final time…
Finally, after centuries of sitting there, she heard a small click as the door handle turned and opened to reveal her tall masked savior and captor. Quickly, she closed the ring in her little hand and tucked it away. She looked up at him as he spoke, and couldn’t help but to feel the slightest bit of offense at his words, though she tried to ignore it for the sake of her beloved. Now was not the time to risk upsetting Érik…
She dragged herself up, back into a sitting position, and wiped a few tears from her eyes. She shook her head lightly in response to his question as to whether or not she was feeling okay. She had to tell him now. If she didn’t, there was certainly no chance for Raoul…
“I… I miss home,” she hiccoughed. “There are people there who may be in a great deal of danger without me there with them… I’m worried for them…” She could feel her stomach groan and her mouth begin to water at the mention and smell of food. It had been so long since she’d had a decent meal… It was making it difficult to focus on her question.
She gazed longingly after the tray, before shaking her head a little bit, trying to prevent the delirium of hunger from getting to her too much. “I have to go back… Please… please, I have to. I have to…”
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Erik Spectre
Don Juan Triumphant
One must get used to everything in life, even eternity...
Posts: 87
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Post by Erik Spectre on May 8, 2013 20:19:22 GMT -5
Érik watched as the girl lifted herself as if from the grave. He saw her fleeting tears and concern grew in his stomach again. Surely... yes, surely it was the rat man's fault. Surely it she was only traumatized by that unhappy event which he--cursed he!-- could not protect her from.
When she shook her head, he knelt beside her, nearly clutching again at the hem of her skirts as he had done many times in woe for her love. He resisted, however, and merely sat on folded legs with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looked up at her with such emotion, such adoration... Surely she must see how he loved her. If only she would reach out to seek comfort from him...
"What must Érik do to please Mademoiselle?" He never asked her questions like this directly, because her audacious inner self would become natural again and ask of him outrageous requests. However, he sought at this moment only to make her happy, so that he might share for a moment a taste of that happiness that would so readily ooze from her pores long ago.
Christine's voice was so quiet, like a little mouse who squeaks in fright of a cat. For a moment Érik didn't understand. She was of course home, unless she was confused and delirious from whatever the rat man had done to her. But then as she continued he realized that it was not the house on the lake she was referring to. No... No, he knew exactly who she thought was in danger.
Érik stood, and laughed, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Danger? What danger could there possibly be? I daresay the only danger we left behind would be the revolutionaries that resurface every ten years. When was the last one? 1873? '74? Oh, I don't remember, and it doesn't matter."
With a dexterous flourish of his gloved hand, he pulled from his breast pocket a flaccid, soft white handkerchief and held it out to her by the tip of his forefinger and thumb. It was old and a bit worn, its embroidery of the initials "J.P.D" fading from its former brilliant red. Underneath the mask his face was almost emotionless, betraying only the slightest signs of contempt. Underneath the second death mask that was his face, he was boiling.
"In any case, my dear, I know not how to return to our time. I am just as lost as you in this hell-hole we now reside in. I am prepared to make the most of it, and would like you to, as you promised, if you would consider the possibility that living with me might not be so disagreeable as you imagined it."
She could not see his eyes, but they were burning. He was succeeding in not uttering the brat's name, as he'd resigned to himself just after he arrived here to never mention him again, especially not in her presence. But he rather hoped she got the message.
Érik picked up the pink glass he'd made for her and passed it to her with a smile. "You must be thirsty, my darling. Please, drink this. A bit of water will rejuvenate you. Clear your mind, if you will." Placing the vase of roses on the nightstand, he took the tray and moved back toward the door. "I shall warm this again on the stove. I imagine you'd like to eat in bed, and though it is not appropriate for a young woman to do, I will allow it on the condition you feel so very ill after your ordeal. Shall I play the violin for you as you eat, or perhaps the harp? You've not heard sweet melodies in so long, they might do you good."
He turned as he backed out of the door, balancing the tray in one hand and gripping the door handle with the other. "My dear Christine... All will be alright, in due time. We can be quite happy together, I'm sure of it."
With that, he closed the door and left her to consider all he'd said.
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Christine Daaé
The Swedish Nightingale and Fairy of the North
If when the time comes, I refuse to go with you, well then, Raoul, you must carry me off by force!
Posts: 1,592
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Post by Christine Daaé on May 18, 2013 11:36:48 GMT -5
((Bleff. Sorry this is so awful >.<))
The trembling girl looked down at the masked man sitting on the floor before her. She never would have thought that she’d be in such a position again, seeing the holes of his mask staring up at her, where those pupils that remained impossible to see in the light looked up at her with an adoration she could have only known from the way he had been nothing but a poor dog, ready to die for her so many times before.
He loved her—that much she could not doubt—but what truly pained her was that it was a selfish love. She thought that he’d finally understood that she could not be happy with him when she loved another. She’d thought that, when we had let them all go, and had told her that he was going to die, he had finally released her to marry as she pleased. But now… now that no longer seemed to be the case.
He asked her what he must do in order to make her happy, and while she had half a mind to demand he take her back tem and there, she could not. She was too weak… weak from not only the near week she had spent in the filthy abode of the ‘king of the rats,’ but also from the crippling fear that she was perhaps already too late…
She sat there, unable to form words and to make them come out in cohesive sentences. Her blue eyes glossed over with tears once more and her lips began trembling, opened as if she wanted to say something, and yet she remained in utter silence.
He was laughing… laughing! There she was, sitting there terrified with the thought that her fiancé could be headed for the guillotine that very moment… and he was laughing, and dismissing it as if her fears were a bunch of silly nonsense!? The tears that had been threatening to fall anew did so, and just in time for him to whip a handkerchief from his breast pocket and hand it to her.
She hesitated, but took it from him, using it to wipe her face. She did not notice until afterward, when she looked down at it, the fading embroidery from which one could still faintly see the letters ‘J.P.D..’ She stared down at them for a moment and then looked back up as him as he insisted he knew not how to return them to their own time and place.
“Érik, please… you promised me… you promised me when I consented that he would be safe…” She didn’t say any more; she was afraid of only further upsetting him should she say too much. Once again, both of their futures were in his cold dead hands…
She hesitated for a moment, but she did take the cup of water from him. She was quite parched from the time she had spent in that dusty, filthy, rat-infested place. She drank, looking up at him with her face still mostly hidden by the cup when he said that he would heat the soup back up. As he continued to speak, her eyes drifted to the vase of flowers he had set on the nightstand. She did not listen to the rest that he said. It was quite obvious that her thoughts were lost with something else…
She heard the door close once more as he exited, and almost simultaneously, buried her face in the handkerchief again as her tears came afresh. This was it then? She was meant to remain here? With him? While Raoul would remain in Paris to be punished as a criminal for his efforts to keep them both safe and happy?
No… no he must have come searching for her sooner. He must have left sooner and come searching for her… he had to have… surely he would have realized she was missing by now and come looking… She prayed that this was the case and sat hiccoughing, her fingers twisting in and out of the handkerchief in anxiety.
J.P.D….
Who was J.P.D.? Yet another one of his victims? What could he or she have done to wrong him? She could not understand how he could be so very indifferent about the taking of human lives… She heard the door open once more, but she did not look up to see anyone who might have entered. Instead, staring down at the handkerchief with her weary eyes, she asked in a soft, yet audible voice: “Who was J.P.D.?”
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Erik Spectre
Don Juan Triumphant
One must get used to everything in life, even eternity...
Posts: 87
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Post by Erik Spectre on May 28, 2013 13:04:27 GMT -5
Érik's demeanor changed entirely the moment he shut the door. The nearer he came to the kitchen, the more the tray rattled in his hands. He grew wearisome and angrier by the second, but he could not lash out as he normally would. He had to remain calm as a gentleman would.
However, he could not help it when he opened the pantry doors a little too abruptly, slammed the pot on the stove a little to forcefully... He couldn't help it when he happened to pop open a bottle of wine and pour himself a rather large glass, nor could he help it when he guzzled it in about seven seconds flat. He reheated the soup languidly, his face flat and unemotional. But his throat was tight and set.
The things he did for that woman! His entire life was revolved around her, and yet she had the audacity to ask him such a thing! The ungrateful little minx! Why wouldn't she just accept his graciousness, like any lady should? They were destined for each other, and yet she was simply so blinded by de Chagny's positive radiance that it prevented her from committing herself to him wholeheartedly.
Érik rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, though not a drop was spilled from emptying his wine glass. He stared blankly at the bubbling soup, realizing he'd spent a good deal of time brooding rather than paying attention to its contents. As it was, it was beginning to crust along the sides. Quickly, Érik took a spoon and stirred the soup rapidly, trying to disguise his frustration with her as his frustration with the meal... though there was really no one around to see.
He was making this soup for her... Yes, he must charm her. She will eventually see the merit in him, he was sure of it.
Shaking his head, Érik poured the steaming creamy soup back into its bowl and threw the pot in the sink. Slowly, he took the tray-- with significantly steadier hands-- back to the bedroom. However, the moment he opened the door, his betrothed's words echoed across his mind... at the precise moment the tray toppled to the ground.
The china broke and the soup stained the carpet, and stung his skin through his dark trousers. He stared, dumbstruck and furious at Christine, especially with the handkerchief in her hands. "Where did you get that?!" he roared.
Practically leaping over the mess he'd made, Érik raced for the bed and gripped the girl's wrists, leaning over her a mere inch from her face. "WHERE WHERE WHERE?! YOU DO NOT TOUCH ÉRIK'S THINGS!" He shook her wrists and watched as the monogramed fabric trembled as deeply as she did. He ripped the handkerchief from her hands, holding it above the both of them without breaking eye contact with her.
"My patience with you is growing thin, Mademoiselle! You shall not disobey Érik again, or so help me...!" He backed away, holding the handkerchief close to his chest. "So help me...!"
He turned and backed away, fleeing from the room and clutching the piece of cloth even closer. He slammed the door, hearing the broken glass on the other side rattle... Or was that the sound of Christine's cries?
Either way, Érik could barely breathe. He looked down at the handkerchief and turned it over, again and again, in his hands. Where had she found it...? How could she be so impertinent...!
Érik shook his heels as he rid himself of the grossly spilled soup. He went directly to his room to wash it off his pants. As he peered at the stains, he recalled what he was wearing... The pinstripe suit... Yes... the last time he wore this was when...
He looked at the handkerchief he'd discarded on his dressing table. Érik sat up, stunned. Immediately, he recalled pulling the piece out of his breast pocket and handing it to his living wife to dry her tears. His fingers curled around his mouth, and he gave a loud sob. Without bothering to change, as he'd come to do, Érik folded the napkin in a square that proudly displayed the faded initials. He raced to Christine's room and opened the door slowly, kneeling down the the handkerchief still clutched in his hand. He picked up each piece of the shattered bowl and placed it on the tray. Then, he set the cloth on Christine's dressing table.
Érik's figure was anything but confident. He was slouched and defeated, ready to submit himself to her at a moment's notice. "J.P.D. is dead. He was murdered by the forces around him that pleaded his insanity..."
He glanced at her, his eyes betraying his emotions, but could she even see them in this lighting? He hoped not. Thus, he left, picking up the tray and closing the door behind him once and for all.
((OoC: your post, and that will be the end, maybe? :3))
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Christine Daaé
The Swedish Nightingale and Fairy of the North
If when the time comes, I refuse to go with you, well then, Raoul, you must carry me off by force!
Posts: 1,592
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Post by Christine Daaé on May 31, 2013 19:27:02 GMT -5
((I can do that! :3 It’s high time this thread ended anyway XD It’s only been going on for what, nearly 15 months now? XDD))
Christine had been staring down at the handkerchief that Érik had given her, lost in her thoughts. Who was J.P.D.? It was a question that poked and prodded at her mind so much that she had allowed it to roll off of her tongue in hopes for an answer of some sort. It was in doing so, however, that she received a rather unexpected reaction.
There came the loud crashing of glass as the tray he was holding with the soup crashed to the ground and the bowl shattered. She looked up at him, rather startled by sudden sound. The crashing came accompanied by his voice, which sounded with the fury of a god of thunder.
The girl could not help but to shriek in terror as the tall masked figure practically leapt at her and seized her wrists, leaning in precariously close proximity to her. She trembled, her lips parted as if to speak, yet quivering, too dumbstruck with horror to utter a single word.
He was furious, though for what reason she could not imagine. She did not understand what she could have possibly done to have set him off like this. Fresh tears began to sting at her frightened blue eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. He demanded that she tell him where she had gotten the handkerchief, and yet all she could manage to do was to sit there dumb with horror, shaking her head, and desperately hoping that he would let her go.
Érik, please! You’re hurting me!, she attempted to say, and yet she could get nothing to come out but a few useless whimpers. She was so very afraid. She knew from experience that it was never good to be in Érik’s way when he was in the middle of one of his ranging fits, and yet, there she was, face to mask with him, and praying that it would all end very soon. Érik sometimes did not seem to use his senses when he was so very upset. He would become blinded with fury and lash out at anything or anyone that was in his path.
He shook her wrists violently before ripping the piece of fabric from her frail little fingers and holding it above them, the dark black holes of his eyes never breaking contact with her gawking blue ones. He continued on in a voice seething with anger, that if she ever touched his things again…
Finally, he let go of her, and inched away backwards with the handkerchief clutched tightly to his chest. What had she done wrong? She’d hardly said anything, and it shouldn’t have been a question to have caused any sort of offense…
Érik slammed hard the door of the Louis-Philippe room, and almost immediately the poor girl buried her face in her hands and let out a terrified sob. Oh, what she wouldn’t have done hide in the safety of her fiancés arms, as she had on the rooftop when she had told him all about her first time meeting the deformed man. She wasn’t sure though she ever would be able to…
Trembling, her tears now flowing freely, she laid her head down on the pillow and cried softly. She lay like that for several minutes, crying and wishing desperately that she could escape this hell-hole. She wanted nothing more than to go back home, where she could be safe, and sound, and there was to be no more talking of him, who had caused her to be so very miserable.
She gazed across the room at the papered walls, and at the spot where that paper was a bit stained with the blood from the last time that she had attempted to release herself from the prison. She wondered if it would matter to him so terribly if she tried yet again to escape. Perhaps this time he would not bother to stop her from doing so…
She sat up, her eyelids beginning to feel heavy (she assumed that it was from all of the crying), and was planning on getting up, when the door opened again to reveal a more calm, and solemn version of the masked figure. He looked ready to die himself, as he entered the room with a rather pitiful air about him. Finally, he spoke.
J.P.D. is dead. He was murdered by the forces around him that pleaded his insanity...
He had picked up the shattered pieced of the bowl and set the faded handkerchief on her dressing table. It was impossible to see the fixed pupils of his eyes in this light, but his submissive posture pleaded his regret on its own. He picked up the tray with its shattered pieces of glass from the bowl, and left her alone to her reflections.
It was only then that Christine dared to breathe (she realized she been holding her breath the entire time that he had been in the room again). Silent again, a few more tears escaping from her eyes, she slowly rose and picked up the handkerchief that he had once again left with her—the little handkerchief with had caused such a very unexpected conundrum…
J.P.D…..
His answer, while it did tell her what had become of J.P.D., still didn’t explain who he had been, or what the initials stood for. She took the thing and sat back down on the bed, struggling to keep her eyes open, and slowly losing the battle. It was only a matter of a few seconds longer before she became too weary to remain awake, and collapsed backward onto the bed with the little piece of fabric still clutched in her hand. The drugs he’d slipped into her water had finally taken their effect. Now she laid there in a much-needed slumber, back in the room of the little house she thought that she had seen for the very last time.
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