I saw Love Never Dies last week. This is the result. ^.^ I tried to make it sound formal by use of language and unnecessary metaphors. :P I liked writing as Erik, but he hate himself so much, and it killed me to write like that. D: The whole time, I just wanted to give him a hug. Also, I used points from various Phantom references, such as his name, being from both the original novel and The Phantom of Manhattan. So, anyway, I'll let you get on with it.
The night was cold, dark. From the Heavens, the last flurries of snow danced to earth, coming to rest on the dry ground which yearned for a taste of springtime. The forest seemed as if to breath words of revulsion toward me with each gust of the early April wind. The fire had only recently been extinguished, therefore, I tried my best to capture the last bit of warmth disseminating off the remnants.
Madam Giry and Meg had gone to fetch more provisions, as well as to formulate an excuse regarding their departure. They would meet me at our next destination the following evening. My gaze lingered upward to the sky, peeking through the treetops of the small clearing. To think that she was looking up at that very same sky, possibly at this exact moment, almost eased a portion of the ever-present aching in my heart. But I knew it was impractical to imagine that it could ever be completely subdued.
My Christine. My saviour. My Angel of Music. It had been just over two months since I liberated you from my presence, and each day had been even more excruciatingly painful than the last. I could not resist reflecting back on our days at the Opera, back when I enchanted you, when you did believe me to be your Angel of Music. Those days when the only thing more breathtaking than the sight of your face was the sensation of hearing your voice.
And then there was that one night. That one single night which caused the only scrap of joy I'd ever known to fly from my arms to those of another, as a songbird flies from a cold, dead climate to a more desirable one in the winter. But my Christine was not a bird. She would not come back to me. She was gone, and we both knew that it was for the best.
I had never felt love before her, neither toward nor from anyone. I'd no idea how to handle this foreign emotion. I had reacted with the only thing I'd ever known; Force, cruelty, violence. And it had ended the same as everything I'd ever done had; My sitting alone, despising the world, predominantly myself.
Without the illumination of the fire, I could see nothing but discrete silhouettes, slightly darker than the blackness that enveloped me. But there was an advantage to this. If I couldn't see another person's face, that assured me that an intruder would not be capable of seeing my own.
In a sudden rush of frustration, I tore away my mask, throwing it to the frozen ground. My wig had not been recovered from the Opera House, therefore adding to the disturbing spectacle that was my face. It was the first time in decades the cool night air had caressed the revolting deformity. The last had been when I was... Oh, sixteen years of age, perhaps? I'd had much more important matters to fix my attention on at the time. It was the night I'd been rescued from the sideshow. It was so long ago, yet I remember it vividly.
There were nights when I would dream, and unlike the nightmares which have plagued my sleep my entire life, they were pleasant. I dreamt of Christine. I dreamt that she returned to me, that she loved me. But these dreams were just that; Dreams, nothing more. And I would often be awoken by Meg or Madam Giry, crying, holding nothing but the empty air.
I fell to my knees, dissolving into tears. It was not the first time- far from it. My Christine... Those same two words echoed in my mind, threatening to do so to the point of insanity. I had to force myself to grasp the truth. I could no longer refer to her as my Christine, for she was no longer mine. She had never been mine. Her heart belonged to the Vicomte. I'd always known that. I was watching when she first caught sight of him, and her eyes showed her instantaneous infatuation with the handsome youth.
She'd looked at me in a similar manner once, during what would be our last duet, my Don Juan Triumphant. She'd looked at me with such passion, such desire. When she pulled off my mask, I did not comprehend the horrified shrieks of the audience. I'd been focused on her. The only person I'd ever trusted, and she'd intentionally humiliated me, put me on display to show everyone there the horrible sight. But I could not be angry with her. I could never be angry with my Angel.
In the midst of my weeping, I was positive for a moment that I heard her delicate soprano saturating the space around me, singing a song I knew very well.
"No thoughts
Within her head
But thoughts of joy...
No dreams
Within her heart
But dreams of love..."
There had been countless occasions during which I believed to hear her music, only to discover it was but my mind creating a facade, however, I turned anyway. I was able to make out the outline of a woman, her hands in front of her, holding each other. My initial assumption was that it was Madame Giry or Meg, but this figure was not either of them, I could tell. I was unaware her name was materializing from my lips until it had been said. "Christine...?"
"I... Had to say goodbye," She took a step toward me. "To my Angel."
I rose to my feet, speaking softly, still unsure whether to believe this was reality or not. "I am no Angel. I am not an Angel, nor a ghost, nor am I a genuine man. Am I not just the monster which was shunned from the world, forced to hide in the vaults of the Opera? The monster that still pines for you with every fiber of its being?" Though she could not see me, nor I her, I shook my head in anguish. "That, Christine, is all I will ever be." There was an uneasy silence as she thought over my words. "Why have you come?"
Again she approached me, and I retreated an equal distance. "Raoul and I are getting married tomorrow. I... Thought you should know." And her hand moved to touch my arm.
I said nothing, but I felt her warmth through my shirt. I wondered if she knew how I was feeling, how much I longed to keep her here with me. But I had done such a thing to her before. I still wore the clothes from the night of the fire, a reminder of what I'd done. In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear the singing in her veins. But she broke the silence with her sweet voice. "I don't even know your name."
Had anyone ever asked for my name prior to this? I could think of no other incident. "I... Gave up my name... A long time ago..." Her arm moved around my neck, and I could feel her satin breath upon my skin. It was then that I gave in. "Erik Mulheim."
"Erik... My Angel of Music." I touched her arm ever so gently, and she embraced me, taking me by surprise. Could this really be happening? I exhaled though my mouth, my breath trembling with emotion. Something was different now. Something had changed. She was no longer timid around me, and I no longer felt the desire to hide from her.
I hesitantly took her waist. "Forgive me, I beg you. I can never forgive myself, but if you will forgive me, I will ask nothing more of you as long as I live."
"You can ask anything you'd like of me." There was barely any distance between us.
I put my hand behind her head and cautiously pulled her closer. And I kissed her. I felt her lips touching mine once more, as they had the night I let her go. Only this time, there was a discrepancy. She wanted to kiss me. I could tell by the way her mouth moved with mine. And she did not run away. Her hand slipped off of my neck, and I soon could feel its presence approaching the disfigurement which had led to my seclusion. When she was just about to touch it, I quickly but gingerly took her wrist, preventing her from going any further. "No... Please don't..." I was certain she was smiling. I had no way of seeing, but I knew. She removed my hand from hers, then proceeded to tenderly caress the appalling distortion. I felt a tear descend down onto her fingers, which she lightly wiped away.
Her voice was with little sound. "Sing for me?" I did as she wished, my tone not quite as strong as it once had been. The song was sad, reflecting the torturous events of my life.
"No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears...
"Shamed into solitude
Shunned by the multitude
I learned to listen
In my dark, my heart heard music
I long to teach the world
Rise up and reach the world
No one would listen
I alone could hear the music
"Then at last, a voice in the gloom
Seemed to cry 'I hear you!
I hear your fears,
Your torment and your tears!'
"She heard my loneliness
Shared in my emptiness
No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears
"No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears..."
She said my name once more, and I saw the shape of her hand move to wipe a tear from her own eye. "I remember the first time I heard you. I was only a child then, lost, helpless, grieving for my father. But you led me through the darkness. You never let me stray from what I had to do."
Her hands moved down to my neck and unfastened my cape, the black fabric sliding from my shoulders to the soil beneath us. They then progressed to my shirt, slowly removing it, revealing my chest. My own hands trembled at her touch. "Christine..." She hushed me, told me it was alright, to mimic her actions. I knew that I should resist, but I simply could not. I did as she said, experiencing more ravishment than I had ever before.
I awoke before the sun could rise. For an instant, I was sure it had been just another dream, but I soon became aware of another individual entwined with me. I could smell her hair, the fragrant aroma familiar and comforting. My Christine... Our unclad bodies lay against one another, sharing heat, sharing passion. I smiled and kissed her sleeping forehead.
I had never felt worthwhile. This was the first taste of any kind of self-pride I'd ever experienced. She'd come back. For me. I was loved by that beautiful woman at last.
"Raoul and I are getting married tomorrow. I... Thought you should know."
My heart fell as I recalled her words. Had she really come for me? Or had she come to give a last farewell, which had unintentionally escalated into this romantic affair? I had not even considered the idea at the moment, as I had been too mesmerized by her elegance, her absolute perfection.
She made a small noise of unconscious pleasure, and I looked over sadly. She was not my Christine. She was the Vicomte de Chagny's Christine. And she always would be. She did not love me. How could she, how did I think even for a moment that she did? A woman of her stature did not simply fall in love with a man like myself, with this grotesque atrocity of an appearance. It had been a mistake to succumb to my obsession. I stood and gathered my clothing, then searched the ground for my mask. I held it in my hand for a while as I thought over what I'd done before placing it back on my face.
I could never be what she wanted, what she needed. She deserved so much more than I could offer her, and the Vicomte, he could give her the life she surely had always dreamed of. And what could I give her? A future of hiding from the world, forced to behold this for the rest of her days.
I was so ashamed. I'd released her to be with the boy knowing that it was what was best, but here, tonight, I'd broken my promise. What would she say when she awoke? How would her eyes reflect the knowledge that she'd betrayed her love, that she'd given herself to me, of all people?
That is, if she even considered me to be a person.
I began to cry, but refrained from making much noise, as to keep from waking her. I had no belongings to gather. Christine lay on the cold ground, her naked form assuredly freezing. I could not tell the time of night, as the moon was absent, but I knew that it would be getting colder as the evening went on. I removed my cape and draped it over her, and I felt her pull it close.
Christine Daaé: my love, my everything. She'd given me hope, a reason to live. And now, I had to give her the chance to live. To live as the wife to a successful young man. A man who was everything I could never be.
I stood while she slept, watching her, cherishing the sound of her rhythmic breathing. My voice was hardly a whisper. "Goodbye, Christine. Goodbye... My Angel of Music..."
And then, I slipped into the dark beneath a moonless sky.