As we walk down the long hallway, lit only by the occasional candelabra, all is silent. The only shadow of noise is the rustle of my skirts and the soft sound my boots make when they hit the wooden planks beneath me feet. He is silent.
His black cloak makes no sign of its contact with the floor; his black boots with their tattered laces seem to not even touch the earth, for no sound issues from his steps. His eyes beneath a black felt hat never leave my face. Though I cannot see his eyes in their deep sockets, devoid of life, I feel them burn into my skin from behind his black silk mask.
Ah, that mask! It covers his entire face, from hairline to chin, so that I have no idea of what he truly looks like. Every once in a while he takes a single, shuddering breath, as if even the small amount of effort it requires is too much for him. He is as thin as a corpse, many months old, and his bones jut out from under his clothes. And yet he does not give off the impression of fragility. On the contrary, there is an immense tangible aura of power about him. My sense of inferiority is heightened further by his stature. Surely he must be well over six feet tall!
His hand does not leave the small of my back as he leads me down, down into the underworld. He does not touch my back, though, merely the air around it. It would seem that he is against any contact with me whatsoever. But, alas, the heat of his eyes upon me suggests otherwise.
She is mine now. It has been done. I lead her down to my domain, across the River Styx and into the underworld. Although I am overpowered by her presence here with me, I can no longer think only of myself. She appears to have control of herself, and yet her physical signs suggest otherwise.
Her pupils are dilated, leaving only a slice of her usual ice blue irises for me to look at. Her hands shake, though from fear or shock or excitement I dare not say. The artery in her white throat trembles with the load her body has given it to endure, and her usually pink lips are a greyish color. I fear that this may prove to be too much for her.
I begin to feel…strange. I feel weightless, and nauseous, and my entire body feels as if it is burning. I see a white light, and then all goes black.
Damn! She has fainted. For a fraction of a second, I am at a loss for what to do. Should I risk touching her and catch her? Should I risk her harming herself and let her fall? At the very last instant, I make my decision. She hits me with every pound of dead weight, and my legs buckle in their weakened state. It takes every muscle in me to pick her up and straighten. I have kept myself in a state of degraded physical condition for the past year or two and am not ready for such a strain on my body. Then I realize what I am holding in my arms. This is no sandbag I must drag out of my path because some negligent stagehand left it where it could cause harm! In my arms, like a sleeping child, is the form of a living, breathing woman! Never in my life have I predicted such an occurrence.
I cradle her to my chest like a father would his infant. Her breath is warm against my clammy skin, and the soft curves of her body meld with my own until we are one unit. Suddenly, after realizing the situation I have put myself in, the load no longer seems heavy. I hurry to the large fountain near my home.
I awake to the sound of running water, my forehead damp. My head rests against something hard, yet softened by cloth, which rises and falls rhythmically. A chest? Gentle hands brush my hair away from my face and press a damp cloth to my forehead. The person smells faintly of candles and hay, a comforting smell which brings back memories long forgotten. I open my eyes, and suddenly my sense of comfort and safety is demolished in the wake of the reality presented.
I have found myself on the lap of the same man who began this strange spiral into oblivion. My caretaker is none other than the masked man I first encountered only minutes before. Faced with this knowledge, I scream. I only get a fraction of the cry out before my mouth is covered by his bony fingers, which, unlike the smell I had breathed in a moment before, smell of death and decay. All is darkness once more.
She has fainted again! For just a fraction of a second, she seemed happy. She was awake for a moment before she opened her eyes, I am sure of it. I saw her contentment, felt her relaxed form. For a short time she was content, being with me. Naturally, when she opened her eyes, that atmosphere dissolved into bitter disappointment and unrealized dreams.
This cannot go on—she must know the truth.
This time, I open my eyes to an entirely different setting. For a moment, I mistake my surroundings for my dressing room on an opening night. All around me are flowers of every shade and type, every bouquet secured with a black satin ribbon. I am lying on a sofa of some kind, with a floral fabric. The Louis-Philippe furniture is mahogany and very beautiful.
And in the center of it all is he.
There is a kind of sad realization displayed on her face. As if she is a child, awoken from a marvelous dream to face the horrors of reality. I was afraid it would be like this. I wanted so badly to tell her the truth sooner, but it was too sweet a dream to end so quickly. With the last piece of her that clings to a forgotten truth, she poses her question.
"Where...Where is The Voice?" She looks around, as if half-expecting her beloved Angel of Music to suddenly appear from behind some flowers. "Who are you? What have you done with my angel?"
Alas, the time for truth has come.
"I am not what you think I am. I am not an angel, or a phantom, or a voice." I clear my throat, preparing myself to say something I have not said in decades.
"I am Erik."
Erik? A million thoughts fly through my head, a million questions, needing a million answers, but searching for them in vain. What have I gotten myself into? Trapped underground, in the very bowels of Hell, it would seem, with no companion other than a single masked man with the voice of an angel.
Into what deceptions have I fallen, to what influence have I succumbed?
He is silent once more, simply staring at me, waiting for some kind of reply. I will not grant him one.
"Where am I? Where have you taken me?" I notice a frantic note creeping into my words and swallow to push it down.
"Who are you?"
He seems puzzled by my repeated question. He answers, gently,
"I have told you, my dear. I am Erik."
As I speak again, this time it is anger that finds solace in my words.
"I know what your name is, but who are you? What are you? Why have you brought me here?"
I cannot be certain, for his features are hidden by the mask, but there is an air of frowning about him now. For a moment he is silent, evaluating his reply, but finally it comes.
"I...I am...Well, I am many things, my dear. Composer, musician, architect, designer, ghost, soldier...I am...whatever you want me to be."
Poor child. I did not make the right decision, bringing her down here. Her emotions are seen clearly on her face and change from fear to confusion to anger and back again at lightning speed. Every once in a while she begins to speak, but stops herself. For once in a very long time, I am at a loss for what to do.
But then it comes to me, like a ray of truth shining through the dark clouds of uncertainty—song. For song is the most natural thing in the world for me, is it not? Music solves almost every problem, every problem except jealousy, that is. Does the child not know me as her Angel of Music? Surely I am obligated to fulfill my title's attributes properly? And so, I begin to sing, nothing special, just a small village tune my mother would hum in the kitchen when she did not know I was there. Even the plainest melodies can be transformed into something beautiful when in the right hands, you know.
As I sing, the song has precisely the effect I had hoped it would have on her. Her muscles lose their tension, her eyelids lower ever so slightly, and the smallest hint of a smile can be detected at the corner of her mouth. She summons her last bit of rationality that has yet to be clouded by my song and speaks.
"You... that voice..." I take the chance.
"Would you like to sit down, child?" She gives a weak nod and I help her to sit back down next to me on the sofa. As I continue to hum, she leans her head against my shoulder.
"Maestro..." she begins.
"Yes, child?"
"You have a beautiful voice..."
As she closes her eyes and falls asleep she cannot see the foreign expression that is a smile under my mask.