literature

The Masquerade Ball - Charles Dance - Fanfic

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     I couldn’t say that I hadn’t expected this.

     This was the yearly ball de masque at the Paris Opera House, and the noise was practically deafening. I knew even before I stepped into the grand foyer--even before I was two stories beneath the Bassin de la Pythie--that this would cause my brain great havoc. I regretted that I had nothing with me, nothing I could find immediately to shove into my ears. Each painful little conversation, each tiny mouth yapping unceasingly, each occasional chuckle--and on top of that live music--added up; ever building into one enormous and terrible roar of voices. One who’s accustomed to such clamor on a monthly, or even weekly basis, takes for granted the minuscule effort it takes to ignore such a phenomenon. And I knew that in an hour’s time I would come to block it out of my mind. But for me, whose ears absorb the quiet of hollow caverns all day with the occasional spurt of organ toccatas and watery echoes of the Opera company above, it was a constant reminder that I did not belong here. 

     What was I doing, putting myself in such a possibly dangerous situation? It was, after all, a pointless venture coming to a ball where you didn’t expect to be swept off your feet; a ball where no one was anticipating your arrival. So why was I there? It was also a risk, knowing that with one false step I could’ve landed in a nightmare: humiliated, arrested, or worse. So far I was cunning enough to move about the perimeters of the hall to unnoticed, and I trusted that my judgment would keep me out of trouble. It really wasn’t either boredom or the risk that brought me there. 

     No one had ever seen the Opera Ghost. But once a year, he would appear amongst the regular, the droll, the stupid and indulgent... to observe. And to watch, knowing that this was the one day he could go through crowds without calling attention to himself. The entirety of Paris’ best--and worst--became a sea of masks. He was free to move about in a crowd as he pleased. Gentlemen nodded, ladies smiled. They were blissfully ignorant of the terror that hid beneath this mask, and it was both aggravating and empowering. 

     At six in the evening, carriages pulled up to the grand facade of the Opera, dropping off bachelors dressed as bandits and their servants dressed as kings. After entering the Avant-foyer, they would arrive at the grand foyer where the grand staircase awaited them. Their colorful textures and exaggerated masks would’ve been enough to stare at, but it was their dancing and parading that gave me something to sneer at. Glittering ball gowns and lacy fans sprinkled the crowds. Gas-lit lamps and candelabras lit the entire scene. The contrast of light and dark, black and white, was particularly captivating to me. Gold plated everything in sight.

     It was a curious thing, that no matter how pompous anyone’s attire was I could make out the figures of individuals. I recognized Monsieur Choleti right away, the Opera’s new “manager.” The imbecile. The edges of his curled mustache gave him away, poking out of his domino disguise. Leaning against one of the carved marble pillars in the foyer, I watched him and his band of fools, amused by his cat-like whiskers that twitched every time he removed and replaced his red bird-like mask. I simply itched to whisper a few words in his ear, only to see his ridiculous rooster feathers stand up in fright. I also recognized the gaudy woman stooping down to peck at his cheek. It was La Carlotta. I had such an urge to poison their punch while I still had the chance, but I knew that giving opportunity for a murder investigation while I was still on the premise would be very unwise. I turned away for the very sight of that woman sent cold shivers down my spine. 

     I continued about the outer foyers which were dim in shadows and plated with mirrors. Sets of fiery candelabras reflected off of these panes, without giving off too much light. It rather reminded me of home, down below, and gave me a certain feeling of security. After all, the whole of the Opera House was mine, and no manager, no singer, “diva” or patron could know each corridor, each nook and detail of this place better than I. On a day like this where I could stroll round this place without the fear of another soul who would spot me, I felt rich, wealthier than any emperor or king. I was the overseeing master of all business here. And that’s why I wandered up here today. 

     All at once, though, this notion of grandeur became lost when I caught sight of my reflection on the walls. I shook my head in utter annoyance at my own appearance. A man of ridiculously high stature with frazzled copper hair hid beneath a black fedora. A black porcelain mask, scowling in a carved grimace; a satyr’s head atop wide shoulders from which hung an enormous black cape. All of me was draped in black, safe for my white gloves which almost seemed to float in a vacuum devoid of light. They held a walking cane with a skull carved into its head. Collectively, I hardly looked like the image of glory and power. 

     And this is why I don’t keep mirrors in my home. 

     Eventually this sight gave me such embittered thoughts, that I made my way towards the Avant-Foyer, full of light and gaiety. 

     There was a midget-like man serving wines behind a counter. I could not object to a small glass. He handed me the filled tin cup with a grunt as he did for all the rest.

     Someone else in an esteemed position would undoubtedly be offended at being rendered invisible. But I relished every minute of their ignorance. My lips sucked in the cheap merlot as I beheld a group of masked revelers. A stringed quartet and cymbals was not enough music for them, so they provided additional noise by singing french folk songs at the top of their lungs, overpowering the string players who were scrupulously carrying on with their presentations of Mozart. I saw that it was becoming impossible to appreciate the the masterful work beneath all the racket, so I set down my cup and continued to float around the candle-lit foyer. I strained a bit to listen in on peoples’ conversations, thinking to myself that this was the best use of my time. It wasn’t every day that people were so abandoned to open conversation in my presence. 

     I saw an elderly couple joining hands for a waltz, and finally the group of drunks left the foyer to storm the grand staircase. My eyes followed the couple and something about them felt familiar. The way they smiled and whispered in each others’ ears, their happy gazes and weathered faces... 

     A flash.

     I was standing in the same place, but the time was different and I was looking at everything from a pair of younger eyes. Astounded by the sight of jewels, gold, silk, the blinding candlelight together like I’d never seen. My mind racing with fantasy, fairytales. And there was an old couple there too, waltzing slowly in the middle of the foyer. I stared at them for a long time and dared to ask myself if they could be my father and mother. They looked right for the part at least...

     A flash and a shiver.

     The sight of this couple now made my throat tighten. I turned away with a swirl of my cape and found myself back in the main foyer. The crowd of drunken clowns nearly crashed into me.

     Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

     Spinning around, mind reeling and hands nearly shaped into fists, ready for anything, I saw a short gray-haired man staring at me beneath a black mask. It was Gerard, my long-time guardian. He had a horrid knack of scaring me stiff, popping out of nowhere. True, he would recognize me anywhere, after all, he practically raised me. But it was his ability to seemingly follow my footsteps like a real Phantom that frustrated my sense of furtiveness and security. He retracted his hand, and I could tell his expression underneath the mask was that of calm. No, calm and concern. I stared at him for a while, uncertain of what he wanted from me. Several patrons were glancing at us.

     “Sir,” he spoke, as if to a stranger, “you dropped your walking stick.”

     I looked down and his other hand was carrying my cane. “Thank you, good man,” I replied mockingly, “I should stop dropping things in your path.” I snatched up the stick. His eyes glared at me, calm but strict. I smiled. “Good evening.”

     Just as I made the move to walk away, he grabbed my sleeve. Again a set of eyes stared. Gerard was well aware of them, so he kindly patted me and kept his distance. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening, monsieur?” 

      There was also the the way he always acted like my out-of-body conscience. What he really was asking was “What on earth are you doing here, Erik?”  He not only questioned my purpose, but also my memory. Would I let a catastrophe occur again? Not if I could help it. 

      “Yes...” I finally uttered. 

     Gerard nodded, pursing his lips. “Don’t lose anything else tonight.”

     “I won’t.” 

     As I walked away, I realized how much I had dreaded his seeing me there. Embarrassment lingered and I kept my back turned to him as I made my way to the foot of the grand staircase. I breathed. Its steps ascended in strong curves and people like fire ants crowding its marble surface. I stood as one with the crimson pillar again, watching and listening. Sometimes I tried to imagine myself as drunk and as miserable as they were. 

     A golden-haired head caught my eye. I recognized that head, and when it spun round I knew exactly who it was: Count Philippe. I shrunk behind the pillar before I knew what I was doing, and watched him swagger as he came to the top of the staircase. A crowd of ladies gathered round him the instant he made his entrance, and cooed at his every smile. His mask hardly hid his forehead and the bridge of his nose. It was the sharp tip of his girlish nose and his flashing teeth that confirmed my recognition. He glanced at his gold pocket-watch and made a gesture towards the girls to leave him. His expression was hardly impatient, although it surprised me that he dismissed them so soon. He usually let them linger for hours. 

     As I was about to come out of my spot, knowing how sadly instinctive my habit of darting behind pillars was, my eyes caught sight of her. I couldn’t move then. Christine came.

     Her dress was satin, a perfect shade of grayish blue like a chilly autumn sky. Despite the great distance separating us, I could see her tender green eyes, round and mild behind a pearly white mask. Her hair done up neatly, her tiny hands wearing white gloves, resting at her sides. Never mind how her voice surpasses human perfection. Outwardly, she was already beautiful enough to be a queen. But when she took the hand of a young man with golden mane my heart began to burn in my chest. 

     She took a step down the staircase, leaning on his shoulder. All of the count’s devout followers gawked at the sight of Christine with him. I wanted to tie them all up to the ceiling by the pink ribbons in their hair. But I watched too, as Christine and Philippe made their way towards Monsieur Choleti. 

     I needed some wine before I had the urge to murder someone.

     Back in the Avant-foyer and I found the red-nosed man who served me wine just minutes before. I ran up to him, leaned on the counter and gasped, “a glass, si vous plait.” He gave it to me without even looking up. After emptying it in my throat, I found a cushioned chair on the edge of the outskirt of the hall and collapsed in it. My head hung. I was outraged.

     She had told me, insisted, that she would be attending a rehearsal for Faust and wouldn’t be attending the Masquerade ball. They were obvious lies but I believed them... every word. But this denial was now shattered. She had abandoned me on that chilly autumn night at the Bistro. After sending my heart soaring with her vocal triumph, she let the Count lead her into a carriage and off they went. 

     I waited... but as the hours passed I knew she wouldn’t come back to the music room. She had found a better companion to celebrate her victory. What prevented me from leaving her forever was the way that she came back the next day, weeping. She later admitted that she had lied to me. And then rushed at me... and hugged me! How could I not only forget about that insufferable Count and all the things she might’ve said to him underneath the moonlight... but also allow her all the freedom in the world?  

     Even now I pondered this, trying to find a way to brush my feelings aside, but I was smoldering. I could feel my jealousy burning, making my eyes cross. When I closed my lids all I saw were their lips brushing against each other... and my imagination ran wild. I saw the new dress and white gloves. All those things would make her smile for one evening, when what I had given would last a lifetime! Her voice that she now possessed was the fire in her heart, set free... 

     But how could I ever prevail in her heart, when I had a mask and he, a perfectly chiseled nose?

     My mind kept spinning but my ears picked up the accompaniment. They were playing a familiar melody but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Gluck, perhaps.

     Minutes, or perhaps hours passed like this, with me, drowning in the fog of my mind and I sat convinced that I was the only person seated when crowds melded into pairs for the next dance. When I saw her standing in the foyer it felt surreal, like I was watching a dream. Philippe was caught in conversation with a pair of aristocrats and Christine wandered among the dancing couples, smiling uneasily. I suddenly saw her: lost. She was the poor country girl with dandelions in her frazzled hair, barefoot in a faded green dress. She didn’t know how to belong there, as much as I. Her turning head then faced me and I quickly averted her gaze by looking down at my shoes. She didn’t know it was I, her Maestro, but from the corner of my eye I saw that she was approaching me.

     No, God, no. 

     I rolled my cane on my legs like a rolling pin to dough, to stop their shaking. I bit my lip when I noticed her shadow that rested at my feet. I looked up and she was smiling.

     “Hello,” she spoke shyly. 

     She studied my black wide-brimmed hat, my sad black form hunched in the chair, my white-gloved hands clutching at my cane and two blue eyes frozen beneath a black mask. My mask bore didn’t seem to bother her, and she continued. “Forgive me, Monsieur, it’s just that I saw you sitting alone and looking at the crowd and I was wondering... Were you thinking of dancing?”

     “Dancing?” the word itself had its difficulty escaping out of my mouth. The very thought of dancing had always perplexed me. I wasn’t sure if I misheard her. 

     “Yes, dancing,” she shifted nervously, “Well, would you... um... would you care to dance?”

     There it was again. The word dancing. 

     I searched the room for the nearest exit, trapdoor or hall... knowing that it was no use. And as I scanned the crowds I realized that nearly everyone but the two of us was already on the dance floor. No wonder she was so easily drawn to me. Should there have been another bachelor-- even a grotesquely fat, bearded and unkept fellow, half drunk-- she would’ve preferred him over the frozen idiot seated in front of her now. 

     “Ahhhh... I...” I was unable to utter a single comprehensive word. All I could do was shake my head weakly, and this was subconscious. When she saw me do this, her smile shrank. I immediately stammered “No, please! I... I just don’t know this song, mademoiselle, really...”

     “Oh... Neither do I,” she shrugged with a grin, “I’ve never really been to a party like this either. As a matter of fact I’m not much of a dancer. I would love to try, but, I can see we haven’t even met properly and I’ve probably done something terribly wrong already... and you really don’t have to dance with me if you don’t want to...”

     “Oh, BUT I DO!” I blurted, springing up to my feet. I’d made up my mind in the few seconds we had spoken to keep my identity hidden from her, but right then and there I had practically given myself away. Not only did I raise my voice which I had managed to keep low and unrecognizable up till then, but I had stood up. She would recognize me for my inconspicuous height. I watched as she jumped, startled by my sudden outburst. I’d frightened her. Good God, I’d made a mess. What was I doing, anyway? Trying to steal a dance with a woman at a ball in front of thousands of peering eyes? It wasn’t possible for me, Erik, to belong to that kind of world. I shook my head and clearing my throat, apologized. “I’m sorry. I cannot dance anyhow. I hope you find a partner. Goodnight, mademoiselle.”

     I turned to leave, but for the second time that night, I felt a hand on my arm holding on tightly. Her touch made me gasp.

     “No, wait” she pleaded. “I can show you, if you’d like?” 

     I wasn’t sure what would happen or what to do, but I knew I couldn’t move away from her and didn’t want to. I was probably sweating and breathless, but I abandoned myself to her. I faced her, nodding. She took my hands and placed one on her waist, the other in hers. I stiffened. Another waltz began to play and we took one step forward. 

     Never had I felt more musically challenged in my entire life. I’d always prided myself in knowing perfect rhythm, perfect synchronization. I was now the baboon, scrambling and fumbling on each step. She did all the leading, watching other dancers, mimicking their sweeping movements. For a good ten minutes, I could only look at my feet. With every fibre in my being I concentrated on keeping my feet from stepping on hers. I thanked the Lord above when the waltz slowed into a middle section that was half the tempo of the introduction. I looked about and saw that we were in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by masks. The sight was terrifying. It was a dream. How did I get here? And finally the one-two-three steps became second-nature. I still danced as stiff as a wooden plank. But I returned all my attention to the woman in my arms. She was perfectly at peace.

     “Are you, enjoying this?” I asked in a low voice.

     “Oh yes. Yes, very much.”

     “Good.”  I, terrified, was too. While she looked about us, I could gaze at her face. Her pale skin and pink lips matched perfectly against the pearly mask. Her green eyes had changed to blue, matching her dress. There was an expensive gold chain around her neck that I hadn’t seen her wearing before. 

     “Have you come to the masked ball before?” I asked her.

     “No, this is my first time,” she admitted, looking up at me, “I never had anything like this to wear!” 

     Again the desolation and feeling of fire inside my chest. My foot misstepped and made us pause our dance. I apologized and we continued.

     “Then, did you get that from the count?” I had to ask.

     “The dress?”

     “Yes.” I also was referring to the necklace, but I already knew what she would say...

     “Why yes!” she brightened. “Do you know the Count then?”

     I thought. “He’s a friend of someone, very close to me,” I managed to allude. She was my only connection to that infernal boy.

     “He has many friends, I’m not surprised.” I followed Christine’s gaze and saw three girls surrounding Philippe as he was still talking to Monsieur Choleti, squawking and thrusting themselves all over him.

     “Oh, no! Not them! I mean, those girls over there, they aren’t my-- anyhow,” I breathed, “That truly is a fine dress, Christine.” 

     She stopped. “How do you know my name?”

     “I--” stuttering, “I heard you. At the Bistro concert last month.” She relaxed and held my hand comfortably. “You have, the most astonishing voice,” I told her. “You were born to sing.”

     “A... friend of mine always tells me that,” her gaze distant, “I suppose if a stranger tells me the same I should start listening.”

     “It’s the truth,” my eyes on her. “Tell me, why did you ask a ‘stranger’ to dance?”

     She bit her lip through a smile. Even beneath the mask her soft features were exquisite. 

     “Well,” she started, “sometimes one needs to take the first step of pulling someone 

     “And how about you?” she entreated, “You’ve never danced before? Is that true or did you just say that to make me feel better?”

     I chuckled. Continued it until it grew into a laugh; a true laugh. A rare thing for me. I couldn’t tell her how alive I felt. That’s when I relaxed, my pole-ish frame finally easing to match her graceful form. Our hands clasped tenderly. I smiled. The question began to sink in, though.

     You’ve never danced before?

     A blinding flash. 

     I was holding the hand of a small girl, about nine years old. She had curly brown locks of hair, dark eyes, and a pink dress with white boots. She was a little bit taller than I was. I’d never known what dancing was before I saw this girl do it. She twirled slowly as I stood and watched her. Her eyebrows arched in curiosity at my tan mask. She invited me towards her and I tremulously followed. Hand in hand, we spun.

           But my hand slipped, foot twisting, and as my head hit the ground my mask slid across the marble floor. Dizzy, I saw the girl retrieving my mask, but when she saw my face the mask dropped to the ground. A shrill cry, she stepped back, almost falling backward. I was shaken, confused. When she had disappeared, men and women towered above me: horrified, bewildered, accusing me of hurting the girl. Screams, and a woman fainting. They dared not touch me, but surrounding me they wouldn’t let me leave. My mask had been snatched up, hidden from me. I searched all their faces, all of them and when I finally saw the younger Gerard he was just as helpless as I. He knew he couldn’t come for me with all of them watching. I was alone. 

     Too afraid to cry in front of them, I trembled. I begged in a whisper that God would save me and that they wouldn’t kill me... that’s when I smelt burning, and saw smoke. Hearing shouts I saw Gerard with a candlestick in hand. People scrambled to put out the fire and didn’t notice the boy in the mask escape to the dungeons. The last thing I saw before I fled were Gerard’s eyes. They were filled with tears. He had warned me not to come up. 

     A flash. I almost staggered.

     I had danced once, Christine... 

     Standing before me, she blinked, her question still lingering. She was oblivious to my  frustration, the absolute fear in my eyes. The longer I stared into her, no longer caring if she knew who I was, forgetting all my foolish goals and attempts at winning her through deceit, the more I wanted her to stare back into my eyes and know who I was. I was that maestro, that friend, the one who cared for her when she wasn’t yet a star. I stared and stared, giving her all the transparency and openness I could give. She had to see me, or feel me somehow.

     But the shadows cast by my hat and mask, and my silence held that veil between us. Her face became red and she broke our contact, looking at our feet. Our warm hands once clasped pulled apart till we were barely held together by our fingers. 

     I lost my footing, recovered, then lost it again. 

     I saw us falling, falling...

     ...and then my mask flying at Philippe’s feet. Christine in tears. My limbs shaking. Carlotta laughing. A gun pointed at my head...

     A gunshot.

     A flash.

     And then I realized the music had stopped. There was polite applause. Everyone bowed to each other, but Christine and I just stood, silent, our fingers still touching. 

     My eyes blurred as I stole time in her eyes. She was still there, and she wasn’t crying. For one instant I saw something that looked like love. It lasted for a breath, she hesitantly lowered her hands.

     “Thank you, monsieur” she whispered. 

     She took my hand in her tiny palms and shook me, “We will meet again...”

     Golden hair caught my eye; it was Philippe, and he wasn’t an apparition this time. My heart pounded. He was heading our way, ready to dance with my partner. I couldn’t let him see me...

     “Won’t we?” 

     I wanted to tell her now. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. She would certainly see me in a different light, in a different mask, if she knew it was me all along! The man who had taught her music and spent long hours at the piano was the same man here who made her smile as a gentlemen, not a mentor... a worthy companion that she needn’t fear!

     But I could always tell her... someday that we had danced that New Years’ Eve. But it hardly mattered to me if she ever knew. All I wanted was to stay with her for one more dance. Philippe was already moments away from us. I knew there was no time. I released her hand from mine tenderly, and said quickly to hide my emotion: “I hope so too. Trouble is, you might not recognize me then.”

     She drew in a breath as if to say more, but before she had the chance I ripped myself away and plunged into the crowd. The last thing I saw before I descended down was Gerard’s face through hazy eyes.

For my creative writing class I was encouraged to write fanfiction. FANFICTION PEOPLE. My teacher even put links up to fanficiton.net (which I don't frequent, but I digress...)

So I wrote this. I know it's overkill, because it was supposed to be a short story less than 10 pages... double-spaced this was like 14.

But I got sucked into the world of CHARLES DANCE PHANTOM AND I COULDN'T STOP.

This is probably the best fanfiction piece I've ever written, but that doesn't really say much when my fanfiction idols are people like :iconmuirin007: with real talent for writing, and I really mean that. I'm probably average or a tad above-average. But I tried and I'm hoping that they don't pick up on things influenced by their writing unless they find that flattering. *shot*

But enjoy it because I usually just don't sit down and write a story.

By the way my teacher did end up reading this (obviously??) and said that it was "seamless, compelling and well-written" etc. (not to toot my own horn?) *shot*

Anyway, God bless. CHRISTMAS BREAK IS QUICKLY APPROACHING!!!!!! YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?!?

More real drawings! :)
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Godmusic's avatar
:star::star::star::star-half::star-empty: Overall
:star::star::star::star-half::star-empty: Vision
:star::star::star::star-half::star-empty: Originality
:star::star::star::star-half::star-empty: Technique
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Impact

I really love it!! The kindness, the sweetness of Dance is supreme!
The ussing a bit psycology novel was amazing; the descriptions, amazing, (Maybe is because I love long, specific descriptions ).
The point of view in first person, by a witness character gives the fanfiction a soft and lovely image, and that sentences in italics increase the emotive tone.
That way of get deeper in the mind of Erik (Derik) was fabolous, so lovely, so tender, so "puffy".
That sensation of "I do not belong here", the way of express it is superlative.

And then the study of Christine, the introduction of a little bit more daring Christine.
I really loved the moment of the waltz between them. It was a really powerful emotive moment, so tense but so calm, which spills love.

Moreover, the memory of Erik about that "trying of dance" was really sad, and despite he wants to kill, to murder, that moment shows a poor little guy who needs a hug, it was so impressive, you can only love him.

To sum up, one word: Brava.