Patient, a Phantom of the Opera fanfic

Disclaimer: There are times that make you glad that I don't own anything.

AN: Just for you, DAEMON FIRE: here's my explanations to your...less than delicate reviews. I'm glad you liked the stories well enough to want an update, but I'm afraid I didn't. I tried to continue writing recently, when I made a horrible realization: as good as this story was for my development as an author, and as fun as it was to write, everything was wrong. Erik's name wasn't (having never been to Broadway, I can't attest to that, but I've read the book three times, which preceded the musical by a considerable period of time, so I'll venture to say that the Author's choice of names was the correct one, spelling and all.), but as I went back to my notes, my stories, and everything else, I realized how deep a pit I was in: Erik is out of character (and continues to be for the rest of the planned story), Marcel finds himself in an angsty predicament, and I spend about two chapters as a songfic. When I made this discovery, I seriously wanted to delete Patient alltogether, but decided to leave it up as a humbling warning to myself and others, reminding all that this is how a good idea (I believe I flatter myself too much there) can become a lousy story.

But to regain your favor, perhaps, here is the remnant of what I have written. The story is (thank the heavens) out of my hands.

Odds and Ends: Quagmire

"Give me to drink,

Give me a chance at the life I would lead,

Give me hope that I may yet succeed,

Give me a prayer...

Give me a thought,

Give me mem'ry of breath that was lent,

Give a care for the strength that I spent,

Give me a sign...

Though you now turn away in fear,

May you still remember I am here,

Send a thought to the man in the shadows--

Bathed in Blood!

I am too broken now to rise,

But there is life still in my eyes...!

Fear not the demons all around me--

Long since dead...

Until I am done,

Give me hope to still look to the sun,

Give a chance at the life that I won,

Don't turn away...

And give me to drink..."

Erik opened his eyes, surprised at himself. He hadn't meant to sing the words of the song out loud. He hadn't even meant to write the song; it had formed in his dreams, as had so many of his former songs. Those songs had once had a life of their own, and with that life, a power.

A power long since dead.

He sighed and rose from his bed, hoping to forget the song that clung to life within him.

Erik had made a habit of sneaking out of bed in the evening and secretly listening to Marcel as he told his little sister stories. For several nights on end he had captivated both of his listeners with the tale of the young blacksmith Erhn, who battled all forms of peril and danger for the sake of becoming a knight and rescuing his beloved princess Seira. Meanwhile, the princess, who was being forced to marry a cruel emperor, had run away, disappearing without a trace. The last character of the tale was an old woman who had come to Erhn's village, half dead with hunger. He had taken her in and taken care of her, and in return, she had given him clues to Seira's whereabouts.

Though it was a charming story, it bloomed in the telling: as Marcel narrated the events, the cottage around him seemed to melt away, replaced by mountains and meadows. The young knight became as real as his inventor, and the his every opponent was as tangible as it was terrible. Later, as Erik drifted to sleep each night, tunes began to weave through his head, accompanying the tale he had heard, though he kept these a secret. Despite their beauty, they were too grim a reminder of the life he had once known.

And of Christine.

The half month passed, and the last traces of winter faded at last into spring, though a chill still pervaded the air. The song took form, unfolded and grew. He tended it like a rose—trimming away unwanted notes and words, giving special attention to a crescendo or a pause, coaxing it into a thing of beauty. More grew from its roots, merged and diverged. They engulfed him with almost the same fervor as it had before, and--

“You have a fine voice,” Marcel observed.

Erik jerked. “How long have you been there?” he asked carefully.

“Seira had blue eyes, by the way. I don't think it should make much of a difference in the tune—it's got the same number of sounds to it.”

“I see,” the visitor said.

AN: After this, Erik and Marcel conspire to write an opera of their own, with Marcel's stories and Erik's songs, which they sell to the Opera Populaire. They use the funds of the money to take Jaimie to see it performed, and use further royalties to put them in a considerable supply of money. But Marcel, more disillusioned than his sister, insists that he continue working, just in case.

AN: A later scene was typed up here. Immediately before this scene, a friend of Marcel's had come to tell Jaimie that her brother had died in a factory accident (which were extremely common and usually fatal in this period of time)(I took considerable pains to research this while I was writing it.)

Marcel was buried the next day. His tomb was in the corner of the graveyard, close to the line of trees. All that day, his friends came to pay their respects to the young man.

“I'm sorry,” one of the mourners said. “Your brother was a good man.”

“Thank you, Jean-Baptiste,” Jaimie said quietly. Her voice was strained, though there were no tears on her face. She had been standing at the edge of the treeline, watching the mourners and the grave all day. Erik had come with her, though he disappeared into the trees when the first strangers had arrived. Her offering—several lilies—lay meekly over the churned earth and trembled as a cool wind brushed through the silky petals. The wind was a forerunner to the fast approaching dusk, and Jean-Baptiste left with the last of the mourners.

Jaimie stepped slowly toward the tomb. Erik had not reappeared—he had probably gone home already. She opened her mouth to say something to Marcel's spirit, as all the others had, but found that she couldn't. The gravestone, though it bore his name, couldn't smile and laugh with her. It couldn't tease her or tell her stories. It couldn't summon her brother and make everything all right again. Her mouth closed with a shuddering breath. She felt alone, completely forsaken. Marcel had been her brother, her only family. Tears formed in her eyes, and suddenly she pitched forward, her legs no longer able to support her weight. Her entire body now heaved under the weight of long withheld sobs. Her bitter cries now filled the air with unrestrained grief and pain. A low cry of thunder resonated from the sky, adding heaven's sympathy to her mourning. A drop fell from the abyss above her, mingling with her own tears, and another, and another.

A thick, heavy warmth settled over Jaimie. She paused from her mourning for an instant, only to draw a long, shuddering breath, before falling to grief again. She did not move for a long time—not until her tears fell dry and her body was stilled of its mournful convulsions. It was late, she noticed, though she didn't mind. Darkness was a suiting environment for her walk home. She rose to her knees, shuddering as a few drops of icy water ran down the back of her dress.

She realized suddenly that, though her head and hands were drenched, her body was not. A long, black cloak was draped over her, sparing her from the unforgiving rain. She looked up and saw Erik, looking down sadly at her. His fine clothes hung miserably on his frame, shamefully wet. Jamie smiled weakly up at him and tried to stand, only to slide in the mud. Erik offered her his hand, which he gratefully took, and lifted her to her feet. He put an arm around her shoulder and guided her back home, catching her when she stumbled and giving her the strength to keep walking.

“Your clothes are damp,” he said as he brought her to her room. “Hurry and change before you catch cold.”

“Oh...right,” Jaimie said dully, and meandered into her room. “Thank you...” And she closed the door behind her. Erik shivered, his own garments soaked through, and hurried to change into something dry himself. A few minutes later he emerged, slinking to stand guard outside her door.

Nothing.

Unsure, he decided to count this as a good sign and went to the living room, sorely missing the labyrinth of spy holes and secret passages of the opera house, and lit a fire to drive out the chill that had settled over the house. He stared into the flame, no longer aware of time itself, when he heard the slow tread of approaching footsteps. He looked up to see Jaimie—she had changed into dry clothes as well, though her hair still dragged limply against her head. In her arms she carried a dripping bundle, Erik's cloak, which she silently laid out in front of the fire to dry.

“Thank you,” she said at last, trying again to smile. The effort she exerted wounded him, though not as much as her eyes did. They were hollow and haunted, stricken with a pain that could not be hidden.

“It's all right,” Erik said gently. “Come—sit down. You have had enough pain.” Jamie bowed her head and obeyed, still trying not to look miserable and failing terribly. Erik floundered, cursing himself for not knowing how to comfort her.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly. He noticed that her breathing was still labored.

“Don't be,” he said firmly. “There is no shame in mourning, Jaimie.” She nodded meekly, and again they fell into silence. After several heavy minutes, Erik finally arrived at a solution, even if it was temporary: his voice. He had seen it entrance hundreds. Jaimie, at least, needed to forget the world and its pains for a few moments. Now he needed a song...it could not be one of Marcel's operas, and she was too weary to listen to anything loud or fast. A lullaby, he decided at last. A song of mourning, though she would never know it to be one.

“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation...” he began slowly. Jaimie's eyes opened a little more, gazing quizzically at her friend. “Darkness stirs and wakes imagination...silently the senses abandon their defenses...” Jaimie leaned closer to him. “Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor, grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender...turn your face away from the garish light of day!” he wrapped an arm protectively around her and pulled her against his chest. “Turn your thoughts from cold, unfeeling light...” he felt as well as heard her breath begin to slow and calm. “And listen to the music of the night...close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams...”

AN: I'm afraid this is all I managed to type before I gave up entirely. The eventual plan is that he finally manages to calm her down, and years later, they get married, living together in that house. Jaimie writes children's stories, while Erik becomes a bit of a tutor.

The end.

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