The Mistress of Seduction
He burned for her. He burned for her as much as a man could burn. From the hair on the top of his head and the soul of music resting in his mind to the atoms at the bottom of his feet, he burned with an inescapable fire for her, ache and need and want never so profound.
But he could never have her. Never touch her luscious curled hair, her somber brown eyes, her soft white skin, never kiss those pink lips that showed him heaven when they opened. Because he was a monster. And the beast never got the beauty. No matter how much it cried, begged, hoped or despaired, the monster never got the beauty.
But sometimes, it just so happens that the mistress of seduction, is seduced by the beast itself. The beast need only wait, for the beauty will come to him, if he does not consider the chance of acceptance, of love.
Christine entered her chambers, sweaty and tired, from the dance rehearsal conducted by the ever strict, Mme. Giry. She sat on her bed and poured herself a glass of water. She laid on the bed, breast heaving from the long breaths she took and closed her eyes. Her thought were only concentrated on her teacher, her master, her angel and her phantom.
The Phantom of The Opera is in love with me.
Innocent as she was (the people considered her to be), she was no fool and her teacher's fiery eyes evoked strange feelings in her, what no man had ever done. There was adoration in her angel's eyes, love in her teacher's eyes and lust in the phantom's eyes and if that hadn't proved that he was just a man, then she didn't know what could.
She loved every bit of it. How he looked at her, just like a famished man begging for a morsel of food, begging for a taste of her. He looked at her as if she hung the moon and created the stars herself. What was she? Just another opera belle, just another singer, just another girl, barely an adult, barely a woman, but he made her feel like the master of the universe. How was just one man capable of giving so much? He would not even ask for anything in return, he would just stare at her, as if she created the air for him, as he she powered his breath for him.
I love him. Oh, I do, I love him.
She could not let such a man go. She couldn't. But why wouldn't her angel embrace her? Did she not sing for him as high as her voice could take her, did she not soar with the wings he put on her? Hadn't she given herself to her phantom and his music completely?
What stops you, angel? Why won't you touch me? Why won't you come to me?
These questions and those feelings plagued her mind and she found herself unable to go to sleep. She sat on the bed, her head in her hands and her mind in turmoil. She missed him, she missed him so much. She wanted him to hold her, and she wanted to tell him that she loved him so much, that she wanted him. Perhaps not as much as he wanted her, for no other man could love like him, but as much as she could feel her heart beat and air that filled her lungs, she wanted him.
"Angel, where are you? I seek your guidance, your warmth, now more than ever," she said.
He wasn't an angel. No matter how much he had, or would try to resemble one, the fire of lust in his eyes had shown her otherwise and told her enough. But she couldn't acknowledge him as a man, her man like this. She would hold him, with her hands around him, and then, would she acknowledge the mortality of her teacher as they made music.
She heard a gasp and almost… almost as if someone stumbled. She smiled briefly, just barely.
"Angel, is that you?" she asked with a cheerful childishness.
There was long silence that none of them dared to break.
"Angel, my teacher, please, come to me. I need you," she said.
"I am your angel of music, oh Christine. Come to me, love me, oh my angel of music," a deep baritone voice that Christine worshipped called out to her.
Slowly, very slowly, the glass on her mirror-case opened, and a black gloved hand held forward, seeking another hand. She got up from her bed, and walked towards the stretched hand.
Where Christine had expected warmth to touch her skin, she felt the coldness of the glove as her hand was engulfed by her angel. Bending slightly, she entered the pathway behind the mirror, cold, and dark save for the torches her teacher lighted as he took her into his lair. Suddenly she wasn't confident anymore, confidence decreasing with every torch he lighted and tugged to relieve her hands of him.
The gloved hand tightened on her and she gasped.
"Are you frightened, my dear child," the phantom asked. "Look, I even lit this path for you, Christine," he said. He had stopped but he hadn't dared look back. So when Christine nodded, the acknowledgement was made only to herself, as she let him hold her hands and walk along the path, that opened into the clearing of the lake.
"Take my hand, and get on the boat carefully," he said, and Christine followed him without any words to be spoken.
She stayed silent, dazed, for most of the part, and unaware of his keen eyes focused solely on her, as he rowed them to his lair. He got off first and helped her get off the boat gracefully.
Christine looked around the lair once more, the place her teacher called his home, the place where her teacher had sought to light her with the solemn, passionate music of the night. There was a certain discomfort in the atmosphere, that which Christine had very enthusiastically thought of removing before coming in the lair, now neither dared to address.
She suddenly felt extremely drowsy, wanting to at least sit, if not lay, and just wanted the silence to continue. She saw her angle sit on the chair near the piano, fumbling with the musical sheets she was certain were the creations of his own genius mind, and said," Angel, I… do not feel very well. May I sit down ?"
Her teacher sharply turned to look at her, got up and walked in fast strides to her, "Oh Christine, my dear, do you feel weak? Oh, I am so sorry! Do you want to go back, mon ange, would you prefer to sleep in your own bed? You must be so tired and I, a bloody fool, brought you here! Let us go back, Christine, we—"
"Stop, angel. I… I do not mind laying down here. You took care of me the last time, and… I…. do not wish to leave you," she said, hopeful.
He stared at her silently, no sound erupting from his mouth. Very softly, he began, "Very well. Go… to the bedchambers. You can rest there for as long as you want. I shall not disturb your sleep."
Christine nodded, and slowly walked towards the bedchambers, closing the open door as she went in.
She would talk to her angel after she woke up. This sudden drowsiness of hers wasn't going away and just the thought of speaking made her frightened. She would talk to her teacher after she woke up.
'I…. do not wish to leave you.'
Had the stars suddenly shone their generous light on him that Erik heard those words in his mortal life? He hadn't thought it possible to be the recipient of such true words that seemed spoken from the heart.
The shameless, utterly shameless monster that he was, he had stayed blissfully behind the mirror, gazing at his angel, always from afar, never near, and her sudden acknowledgement of him had thrown him in a chaotic turmoil.
Every move, every word, every breath that he has ever taken for Christine was planned. Planned to perpetually engulf her in a blanket of deceitful trust, one, if he had the power so, she would never be allowed to leave.
But Christine's responses made him hopeful. And hope was bad, very bad for him, for he seldom got what he so ardently wanted.
Christine woke up, feeling refreshed and better rested than she had in weeks. She stretched on the bed sheet of soft silk, that she believed her angel had so painstakingly put for her. She had half a mind of just lying on the bed and not moving an inch.
Angel. No. Not just an angel. My angel is also a man.
But Christine could never comprehend the man that was her teacher. Her teacher's voice was heaven sent, one that she hadn't seen any tenor or baritone match. He never came in front of her, had never showed his true self to her, and she did not know this man's name.
Her teacher also had a curious piece of white mask that hid his face.
She did not know the reason.
Is it only the mask that stands to prevent you from completely baring yourself to me? Why would you hide yourself from me angel? At every step that I have taken with you, I have bared myself- heart, mind and soul. Why is it wrong for me to expect the same from you?
Christine took off the lace coat of her dress, leaving her in only her chemise, corset and white stockings. Getting out of the room, she saw her teacher sitting on his pianoforte, playing a soft melodious tune, simultaneously scribbling on paper. He was creating a masterpiece, she supposed.
She looked at her angel's long bony fingers, working deftly on the keys, his back postured straight as a rod. His black hair was swiftly combed backwards, and then she saw him drink water with a glass kept on a nearby table.
This was a man, she was walking towards.
Had Christine not been here, he would've worked on Don Juan Triumphant, but so as to not disturb her sleep, Erik decided to keep it low with composing a simple tune, inspired by Christine. All of his music was just his feelings, indescribable by words, but so powerful on the keys. Every feeling that Christine evoked in him every time, he put it on his keys and his paper.
Erik was deeply immersed in his playing, for he did not hear Christine approach him. He stopped playing when he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her and what a sight she was to behold.
Christine had let go of her lace overcoat, and what was left on her left nothing to the imagination. She taunted Erik, with her smoky brown eyes, the hair that followed her milky white neck and bare shoulders. A barest hint of a full bosom, trying to bulge out of the corset, met with Erik's eyes as he could not stop him from moving down further.
Erik felt as if he had been to the heavens and back, when she cupped her face, her soft hands moving from his shoulders to his neck.
If this is a dream, may I never wake up. Oh Christine…. I love you.
The warmth of her hand travelled from head to toe, evoking fire and desire in him. He burnt like never before, wishing for the moment to never end, for time to stand still.
Erik turned to face her, staring deep into her eyes, the emotions thus shown from which he couldn't make out. So lost was he, in her touch that he could not stop her as the strings of his mask was loosened by her and the mask came falling off, falling down onto the ground.
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