A small cat crept along the underground corridors of the opera house, and meowed loudly as it approached an ornately furnished area. The pitter patter of her paws was ignored by the only person within sight, a brooding man seated at a large organ. The cat hopped lightly upon the organ bench and curled alongside her master, nuzzling her small ears into his hip. It was still several moments before the man set down his music parchment and looked down, acknowledging the small creature with a slight smile.
"Why hello there my Ayesha, did you enjoy your time away?" his voice was deep and smooth, and as he stroked his long fingers between the tiny cat's ears, he smiled at hearing her pleasured purr.
At least you've never been afraid of me, he thought inwardly, continuing to caress the little creature. With an awkward twitch in his heart, his mind went to Christine. Oh, his blessed Christine, how he longed for her… And how much she didn't know. Or did she? Months had gone by and their lessons had grown more and more intimate, her voice and his combined to create the most beautiful music he could imagine. But still, only once had he revealed himself to her. Taking her by the hand, he had lead her to his home, his 'lair', and there she spent the night with him, innocently sleeping in his favorite bed. She had not seemed frightened of him, nor did he force her to accompany him. The next day he had willingly taken her back up to her room, daring to leave a small kiss on her forehead before disappearing back into the darkness. Unfortunately, he had chosen to do all of this just before Madame Giry had planned to take the ballet rats on a small trip, and because of her good nature, Christine; along with the little Giry, Meg, had gone along to help out. Counting silently in his mind, Erik quickly realized that if all went according to plan, they all should be arriving back sometime late tonight.
Gently scooping the little cat into his arms, Erik made his way across the room and placed her gently down on several cushions grouped together on the floor. The cat meowed up at him with large amber eyes, seemingly pleading with him not to let her go. Oh little creature, Erik thought mournfully, if only others longed for me the way you do. If only she longed for me they way you do…
Silently, Erik walked away from his little pet and returned to his organ. Sitting down, Erik stretched his long fingers across the keys and breathed in deeply, relishing in the sound of his music. What an escape, what a relief, his music had always been. But now… now he felt haunted by something, something deep within his heart. He could play any tune, any melody, any note… and yet still, her face, ever soft and innocent, flashed before his eyes when he dared to close them for more than an instant. At first he had welcomed his dreams of her, awaking always with his lips slightly upturned, for once looking forward to starting a new day. Because a new day meant a new night, and a new night meant the prospect of another lesson. He had always enjoyed singing to her, serenading her into a gentle sleep, even when she was just a little girl. But then her own voice began to beam out, and he relished in teaching her, training her. The look upon her face when he was pleased with her, oh, what look it was! He liked to think that as she grew older, she came to look forward to these lessons and, as he could tell, more and more intrigued by this mysterious "angel of music" whom had blessed her with the gift of song. He remembered how long it had taken her to really sing out during performances, how shy and reserved she had been for so much of her childhood and adolescence. Always hanging by the little Giry, preferring to be one of the ballet rats rather than trying to excel in opera. Slowly, patiently, he had trained her voice until she knew she was ready to sing out, to be heard by more than only him. And what a voice she had.
She is truly the angel of music, he mused, resting his face in the palm of his hands. His skin felt strained against his palms, the creases in his forehead slipping into the lines of his knuckles. Stretching out his fingers further, he easily covered the smooth porceline of his mask, inhaling deeply as he did. It would almost be easier if his entire face was masked, his entire body, his entire soul even. Then he could just create his music, wallowing in this dungeon, and not become attached and yearn for a love that isn't there, that couldn't be there. After all, she was an angel, and him the devil's child.
Shaking his head of these thoughts, Erik stood up quickly and strode to his bedroom. The room was furnished much as the rest of his living quarters, although his room was a bit more messy. Despite the immaculate order of his sheet music, Erik's own personal things were left much more casually. A pair of worn trousers were laid across the headboard of his bed, most; if not all, of his shoes were piled together next to his armoire. No family portraits or letters were left out, certainly because he had none to speak of. Instead, freehand drawings of Christine were sprawled across his desk, amongst blank pieces of parchment and half opened bottles of writing ink and quills.
Walking to his armoire, he began to unbutton his cotton shirt and slipped the white material over his shoulders, nonchantly folding it and laying it in a small basket beside his feet. Opening his armoire Erik reached in and pulled out another white shirt, but this one a thicker material, with larger buttons and a cut that was snugger to his body. After pulling this on he again reached in and this time pulled out a black over-vest, fingering the silky fabric before slipping it around him. Brushing his fingers through his dark hair, Erik let his fingers rest over his face again, this time making sure his mask was firmly in place. If he was able to see his Christine again tonight, he could take no risks.
Pulling on his infamous black cloak as he left his sleeping chamber, Erik headed towardshis boat.He paused momentarily to regard his little Ayesha, still sleeping on her mass of cushions. With a silent nod in her direction, Erik climbed gracefully into his boat and began to row through the lake, humming idly under his breath as he went. Although he had no clocks in his home, he estimated it was between 11 o'clock and midnight, and was unsure of whether or not Christine would even be home yet. He recalled Madame saying they would be arriving very late that night, if not early into the next morning. If she was back in her dormitory, would she even wish to see him? Again, he was unsure.
Trying to clear these thoughts from his mind, he shook his head slowly, shutting his eyes momentarily. Unfortunately, his eyes were shut several moments too long and his eyelids seemed to evaporate into images of Christine. Her sleeping in his bed, a tussle of chestnut curls enveloping her slender form. Her drinking the tea he had made for her before breakfast was ready, the plump color of her lips as she smiled graciously at him. The fascination in her eyes as she sat silently beside him on the organ bench, watching him play an old song he had memorized in Persia. One of the things that amazed Erik most about her beauty was her undying ability to keep that awed look in her eyes, never bored nor listless did she fall. Always interested, always curious, always intrigued. He only hoped her curiosity didn't get the best of her, and that she didn't long to see the man behind the mask. Or rather, he thought wretchedly, the monster behind the mask.
Stepping out of his boat, Erik steadily eased himself out onto the cold ground and regarded his surroundings with ease. Nothing seemed disfamiliar or out of place, so he tied a rope loosely to the boat and turned on his heel to walk up several stories of corridors. He lit no lantern and carried no candle, for he needed none to know where he was going. All of these corridors, all of these passageways, he knew by heart, much as he knew the music that he played. His feet were steady as they hit the ground, and made almost no noise as the sturdy material of his shoes splayed over the concrete.
Why does it always seem to take so much longer heading up than down? He thought, barely acknowledging the progression of unlit torches lining the walls. But how foolish he was being, he knew why that was, for although he had minimal human interaction he had read enough psychology books over the years to understand the concepts of the human mind. Why did it seem to take decades for him to reach Christine Daae's dormitory? Why because the anticipation of what may rest there, of what may rest in her coming back down with him, was enough for his heart to beat faster, blood to pound viciously through his veins. It was as though he was a young woman, awaiting the return of her newlywed husband from a long business trip. Should she try to wait up for him on the night of his return, perhaps only to risk him not arriving until late the next morning, when she'd undoubtedly fallen asleep in her chair? Erik smirked at the thought, but the thought of one more letdown couldn't stop him anymore. After all, he reasoned, if she wasn't there yet, it wasn't as though she wasn't there by choice, it was just a matter of organizing the little ballet rats, getting everyone settled into the carriages…
But what if she was there and did not wish to see him? He dared not think further of that thought.
He had become so engrossed in his own mental battle, that he failed at first to notice someone coming towards him in the corridor. His ears immediately perked up at the sound of footsteps; it sound like only two feet, one person, coming in his direction. He was unsure whether or not they were headed towards him directly or just headed downwards, and sucked in his breath as he heard a shuffle, as though someone had almost fallen and had to steady themselves. Glancing down at his feet, he saw several rats scurry by him and figured that the other occupant of the tunnel had too just realized their being there.
Fingering his lasso Erik narrowed his eyes and steadied his breathing. Was this just another drunkard, a foolish scenary assistant who stumbled down here for a lack of other places to be? But why would someone be in Christine's bedroom, unless someone was snooping around her personal belongings, hoping to steal something from her, perhaps? At this notion, Erik angered still at his guilty until proven innocent, also anonymous, peer.
The footsteps were growing closer now, and he thought he heard someone clear their throat, but not as a means of introduction of their appearance, but to settle nerves. He couldn't tell whether it was male or female because of the odd echo affect and the quiet nature of the noise, and his mind racked for people who it could be. I hope it's not that dreadful Joseph Buquet, he groaned inwardly, I don't want any blood to stain these clothes, I believe Christine rather fancies them…
He was right beside a corner, and he could feel the other person standing there too, now there was suddenly no doubt they realized he was there. Both waiting in nerves, Erik let out a deep, but silent, breath and again tightened his lasso in between his fingers. Now or never, he thought, and leapt out silently from around the corner. I wonder who's face I'll s-
"Christine!"