Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.
Author's Note: Just a little forewarning to those intending to read this. Seeing as I am one who goes pretty much solely by Leroux, I will have no elements fixed in with anything containing Susan Kay, ALW, or any other's work. I am going by my own, personal beliefs on Erik's childhood, without the influence of another writer other than Leroux himself. This also contains neglect, emotional, a slight physical abuse. I ask everyone to please take this into account, and read this story with an open mind. Thanks.
Fall from the Angel's Grace
The Paris Opéra House, France
December 1881
The last brilliant rays of the Parisian winter sun had finally faded, leaving only faint traces of moonlight in its beautiful wake. The pale, condescending beams fell from the sky-shattered heavens, much like a lunar god condemning those below it, thus scattering the broken remnants upon the frozen earth and into the unseen corners of the world. The last of these lingering fragments had inordinately buried themselves within the crevices of an ill-forgotten time as all thought and conscience fell away to the beautiful oblivion of night.
Peasants permeated the soiled streets, their humble commoner's clothes nothing more than dirtied, tattered strands of stiffened cloth that were graciously overshadowed by the dim lamplight. Noblemen, adorned in fine evening attire, passed by, never noticing their fellowmen who were less fortunate than they as the desire to make their destinations stifled the ordinary gloom of the city's sodden streets.
The haven for many, both rich and poor, lay within the grand halls of the Opéra Garnier whose sole creator spurred it to the imaginative levels of the infinite. No opéra house could compare with its illustrious beauty, charm, and dignified grace, as no other could surpass such divine perfection.
Towering over the austere buildings that neighboured it, it loomed over the city, like an ominous gargoyle, its ever-watchful gaze falling upon those who entered its hallowed domain. For no soul, no being of weight and class, could ever dare find fault with Garnier's masterful creation. The Paris Opéra, with its lavish halls and overall splendour, would be a testament to the coming century, and beyond, as it would be the only thing to remain when all else faded by time's wearing touch.
And as such, no one, not even the most clairvoyant and sensitive of minds could feel the overall sensation of their meagre existence, the heavy throws of their impending death lingered far into the distance, and the snows of future winters waiting to become tainted with their passage into another age.
Nevertheless, the Opéra remained pristine as the dirtied snow without had left little effect on those within, the remnants of the cold becoming nothing more than a memory. The height society mingled about its gilded halls of splendour, ever mindless in their pursuits in the sinful pleasures of living. No one dared to dream, much less hear the faint, almost ethereal resonance of an ancient organ five levels below the ground they walked upon…
The sombre, broken strains of Beethoven's Symphony Seven in D Major floated throughout the catacombs and moulded corridors of the Opéra's cellars. The tranquillity displayed fell upon deaf ears, however, as the creator of such an enigmatic sound burrowed all thoughts of pain into his own demented mind.
For the passing of three hours he played, never ceasing in his task to appease the silent halls and corridors with his music. Skeletal fingers, nimble in their graceful demeanour, executed the memorised notes to exact measure, never once failing in their attempt to convey their master's idle bout of anguish, the cry of desolation from within too profound to express in words.
The notes escaped into the toiling hours of twilight, and the agony exacted from each stricken key only carried the tangible despair of one who bore too much.
Erik ceased his painful composition, his bare hands falling away from the ivory keys of the massive ebony organ. He turned away from the dreaded instrument then, his masked visage obscuring the truth that lay behind it. A hand, aged and emaciated, collided against his false cheek in an attempt to ease the imminent onslaught of tears that faintly brimmed within the hollow sockets of his eyes.
Christine, oh, Christine, his mind chanted in silence, an expression of profound loss hidden behind the aged porcelain façade. A stifled and wary silence ensued, and his hands moved to console his broken mind as the grandfather clock chimed the hour of seven within the distance.
He vaguely noticed the small disruption upon his solitude, and his head raised a small fraction from his battle-worn hands to acknowledge the meagre passage of time. Had hours passed and not seconds, he wondered as another stabbing, driving pain struck his tormented mind. Thoughts of his beloved had once again seized him, and he raised himself from the organ's elaborate bench to wander the halls of his domain, which had been bathed in darkness.
His eyes focused with ease as he moved within the house, his staggering gait purposeful, demeaning. Twice he almost fell, losing his balance against fatigue and the grim reminder of his advance in age. He chuckled darkly, idly recalling that he was not getting any younger, and sooner or later he would be confined, bedridden until he at last faded from existence.
A broken smile besieged his twisted lips. But until he set aside the ghost and the man who inspired it, he would not greet Death so willingly. No, not when there was so much to live for.
And it was at this mild consideration that he questioned his purpose. Was he here solely for the amusement of those who smote him so unjustly? Or was there something more? For over forty years, he believed in nothing, and found no faith in the divine, only faith within himself prevailed against such adversity he had endured over the passing century, and he doubted that anything—especially a god—would ever dare intervene upon his life, even now. Nothing had come of his life, not until…
Christine, his mind cried once more, as he fell ever so gracelessly in the darkness. He whispered her name, the haunting syllables that created it broken by his stifled cries of pain. Like a wounded animal, he lay against the cold floor, his weary, irregular form convulsing with the shattered notion of a ruined dream.
Saltine tears almost escaped his hollow, empty eyes as he considered everything. He had been, to some degree, content. His time in training the aspiring Christine Daaé had provoked an ancient longing buried deep under the shrivelled remains of his unbeating heart. He had dared to hope, giving in to that innate sense of naïveté as he had as a child.
He balked at the notion that such foolishness could claim him now. And yet, much to his dismay, it had. For the first time in half a century, he felt that perhaps someone could finally accept him and, in some small measure, come to love him. He had believed—or rather, hoped—that love, despite the truth of his horrid appearance, could be found within his young protégée. He dreamt that she would somehow see beyond the mask and come to know the man that remained captive behind it.
His unending agony continued with the proceeding memories of what had become of his dreams. All his reservations had been proven the night he took her to his home, in the depths of the Opéra. Her limp form swayed madly against him as he held her, his hand, ungloved, suspended above her tiny forehead, releasing the precious drops of water upon her brow. This small act of concern had been the beginning that inevitably led to where they were now.
A stifled cry almost escaped him, his trembling fingers pressing madly against his temples. For in that allotted time—the brief passage of two weeks—was, and would be the only progress he would have with her. The pain and fear he had first inspired within her curious mind proved all too true by the fatal snap of his mask's fragile strings, his face coming into full sight at last.
Christine had paled visibly under his scrutiny as the horrid deformity merely confirmed the twisted and perverted notions she had come to deduce from upon first seeing it. The curiosity had gnawed away whatever composure she had the moment she wrenched it from his face, her error revealed by the mask's condemning descent to the floor.
And with like retaliation he rounded on her, cursing her for such foolishness. Outside, he gave the appearance of one wronged, his monstrous affirmation only conveying anger and self-righteous indignation, while inside he felt only the foreboding despair of loneliness once again. Inside, he realised, she would leave him the moment the opportunity sought her.
He forced her to stay then, closing them in his dark world by the ill-fated turn of a key. He had rendered her powerless, making her a prisoner to his desire—in which she reluctantly complied, much to his disappointment. She had somehow buried whatever fear and disgust she had of his face under the gentle serenity of her beautifully deceiving face. And it was this beautiful lie that saved his remaining sanity.
The two weeks spent within each other's presence had only furthered this temporal distortion, as if somehow compelling them learn from the other and forgive the faults of each. He wanted Christine to believe in him again, like she had for the past three months. The desire to see her smile—willingly—was his main objective, as he tried to coerce his beloved into forgetting his deceiving her and know that he truly loved and adored her.
He still did. He had for quite some time—from the moment she told him to show her his face without fear. And much to his delight, she had burned the horrid black obstruction, feeding the fire a lifetime of fear and rejection. He had fallen on his knees then and kissed the hem of her skirt in a reverent and beseeching manner that heralded the unending loyalty that consumed him. It had been the beginning of his love for her, but it was also the beginning in his fight to keep her.
The boy, he painfully remembered, had somehow come into their lives, disturbing the fragile understanding that held them in balance. And like a ravenous wolf, with his noble and perfect face, the damned Vicomte de Chagny had gracefully convinced Christine that he loved her.
Raoul de Chagny, the favoured son of the former Comte de Chagny, had all but been a mild irritation that induced its poison into everything it touched. Raoul de Chagny, the boy who had single-handedly convinced Christine of the monster who loved her. Raoul De Chagny. Oh, how he hated that name, despised it to the point of madness, as he loathed the painful memory it inflicted.
Erik withdrew from the thought. The fool was not even old enough to recognise what love actually was, for the young nobleman was still a child in many ways, seeing as he trembled in the security of his own home, proving his noble cowardice as he shot blindly into the darkness, at the twin stars that questioned him.
An unforgiving shudder forced him to recall the entirety of that night. He had almost taken a bullet for the fool's incompetence, and his own. He should have killed him that night, instead of torturing the wretched child into crying for his older brother to save him.
It was of little importance now. The boy would be out of his life—but more importantly Christine's—soon enough. Soon the notable Vicomte de Chagny would know not to interfere in things that did not concern him.
Such idiocy could truly cause one to lose one's head. It would be a pity if the Opéra's managers somehow managed to find the bruised and broken body of one of their greatest patrons. The Comte de Chagny would inevitably cut off all funding upon being notified of his brother's unfortunate end, which would ultimately wound the Opéra itself.
But in spite of the foreseeable future of the Opéra and its functions, he had little concern. Very soon it would lose its most beloved and brightest of stars. Christine Daaé would soon make her dramatic exit from the Opéra, leaving its wondrous stage forever. Her glorious light, which illuminated and transfixed all wit its empowering radiance, would falter and fade as all other lights went out.
And as he thought upon his beloved protégée, he could not disregard the pain he endured from her long absence. For it was not long after her stay in his dark home that she began to evade him, secreting herself and running to her witless young suitor.
A brilliant stab of unmarked fury, both insurmountable and adverse to its growing potential, burned within him as the fires of rage seethed within his golden eyes. He could feel the very flames of Hell consume him when the memory of his Christine betraying him tore away the last remaining threads of sanity.
He cried her name, unleashing each pained note of his undying anguish within it, as he lay against the floor, beaten and broken by the fear and despair that festered from within. He shuddered against the cold stone tiles, faintly recalling everything.
Had it truly only been last night when his still-beating heart was rendered in two? He was still into process of collecting the shattered pieces of it as Christine's smile that, was so painfully embedded within his mind, mocked him, enticing him until it severed all hope of a life without her.
She had smiled for her young, handsome vicomte, not for her Erik as she openly welcomed the younger man's embrace and kisses. It took the remainder of his strength not to cry out in objection to their childish union, for she already belonged to another—he—as the golden ring, which she had so conveniently lost, proved whom she was truly wed to.
His angel would soon see her terrible error in trusting in another's false affections and return to him. He would prove to her, once and for all, that she belonged to him, and no other. For no one, not even her naïve vicomte could save her from the one who loved her beyond all recall.
Christine Daaé, divine prima donna of the Opéra Garnier, would soon be the living bride of one considered dead by all.
She would want for nothing, he silently reminded himself, as he considered the arrangements made. He had seen to everything, down to the minute details of procuring the winter gloves she would wear on their nightly ride through the Bois. Christine would be happy after tonight. For he would see to it, secretly knowing that he was the only one who understood, who truly saw her and knew that he also shared in her sadness and rejection by those who deemed her as lesser than they. Perhaps he understood her too much.
Nevertheless, he would bear the burden of her pain as he made her his wife. Nothing could come between them then—not after this night. Not even the vicomte and all of his godly power and influence could manage to spirit Christine away. In the end, the cold reality of the world would triumph over the falsified fantasy the young, puerile nobleman had indulged his Christine with.
And in the end, Erik, not the vicomte, would finally win.
The bitter, almost satisfying sensation of it caused a slight smile to warm his twisted lips. After the better half of a century would he finally feel the normalcy that others took for granted. He would live a normal life, have a wife—who could perhaps come to love him, despite everything, in time—but more importantly, he would live without the constant fear of the one he adored most despising him. Christine would come to see his face as any other's, as he carefully concealed the true one under that almost humanlike mask he had constructed.
It was a far cry from the one he was forced to wear so long ago, under the uncaring eye of his mother as she wistfully mistreated him at every turn. The years of pain and agonizing neglect she had imparted upon him had only sustained the abandoning nature from within, as the ghostly whispers of the past reminded him.
He inwardly shuddered at the thought, seething at the memory of her, his mother who, had unfortunately had not even given him a name, seeing that he had no need of one, for monsters and demons did not deserve to be given anything that may somehow humanize them, as his mother once told him.
She had taught him many things as well, he sadly recalled, as her voice descended into the forgotten recesses of his aching mind. She had taught him of the world, of emotions, and of betrayal. She had even taught him how to hate. His mother, the first, and foremost important of influences in his life, had somehow graciously bestowed upon her son the ability to hate the world that despised him, or rather, his face.
Oh, how he remembered his mother who despised her only child…
The small, almost pastoral village that bordered upon the outskirts of the medieval city of Rouen had remained intact, even after the noble heads of those who sought to hide within its quaint, unaffiliated streets rolled from the bloodied platform as the resounding crack of the Revolution's finest administrator of justice, the guillotine, severed the impurity that plagued all.
The headless bodies were, as many believed, cast into a cache of unmarked graves that adorned the village's peasant cemetery. No cries of pity, or even attempts to remember those who fell under the dulled blade were considered, as traitors were best left forgotten, their ignoble bodies mouldering in justified decay. Neither tombs, nor grand edifices of stone would bewail them as all forgot the waking nightmares from days long since passed.
But despite the darkness and despair that the souls of those not remembered cried, the only living occupant in the cemetery heard nothing of their unending plight. A harsh and unbreakable silence had descended upon the ivory monuments of stone, as each quietly resonated with the timeless song of the dead.
The child heard this song, however, feeling only the cold isolation that death brought to each. And it was this same coldness that he felt too often, even as he lived and breathed each day as those who were dead, could not.
His stare fell upon the ancient worn markers, the strange, yet enticingly, golden hue of his eyes considered the stones, as if feeling an affinity to those severed from the world. For he himself felt the uncaring touch of his own mother, who coldly reminded him that she was merely his guardian and not someone who loved or cared for him.
Love, as she once said, was nothing more than a lie, found in the sonnets and poems of bards whose sole belief in a faithless practice always ended their blissful song once death came to claim them. The absolution in which all believed never alleviated the sins they had committed.
He was living evidence of that.
His small head inclined, as he felt the shame of his mother choking him, compelling him to understand. A tiny hand fell against his face, or rather, what covered it. He shuddered at the feel of its cold exterior, forcing himself not to cry for his misfortune. His small fingers explored the uneven surface of the makeshift mask, feeling what lay beyond the hardened brown clay, which had been left unpainted.
The poorly stretched skin that encompassed the hollow, twisted bone was irregular and barely concealed by the mass of matted dark hair. His hands trembled at the notion when he hesitantly removed the mask, a sigh almost escaping him as he felt the coldness of the light grace against his face.
As a rule, his mother forced him to wear the mask at all times, even whilst sleeping could he not remove it. Her beliefs in keeping him masked and hidden from the world had only indulged him to explore it, and understand why she kept such wondrous things from him.
People of all shapes and sizes moved about in the town, unaware of him as he watched from a harmless distance. The woods that bordered upon the small village had inadvertently given him the means to watch as others lived and worked. And he watched them, fascinated by the simplicity of life and how he himself was no less different from the other children.
And yet, he knew that despite his childlike reasoning, he would always be considered different, as no other child had the same, misshapen face as he. All of the other children—all of the ones he had at least seen—had faces, that greatly contrasted his.
For their faces were perfect, unblemished by the blinding rays of the sun, whereas his was mottled and imperfect, and harboured a yellow, almost corpselike appearance. His lack of a nose and the sunken area around his eyes only added to the incomparable features that no one else, not even his mother, had.
His revelation of this had sadly come when he was greeted by the strange reflection in the stream by his home. The onslaught of pain invoked within only spurred his discontent when he realised that is was he who was staring back as he traced his malformed lips with skeletal fingers.
He looked like one already dead as he recalled the countless drawings and sketches he had seen in an old, age-worn book he kept under the attic's floorboards. His mother would be most irate if she learned of its existence, especially if she knew he had confiscated it from a trash bin outside of the funeral mortician's home.
Nevertheless, he had learned much from its tattered pages. At least enough to realise that his face should not be as it was now. He tried to understand why he was so frightfully abnormal in his appearance. Even now, he found himself horrid to look upon.
The hideousness he found that day in the stream had only confirmed the feelings of disgust and loathing that his mother quietly concerned herself over. It was why she made him wear the mask now, and why he shielded his face from her, and also from himself. For even he could not bear to be without the poorly constructed façade he had known since he could remember.
He touched his face now, feeling only coldness and the eternal decay emanating from it. He sighed then, the entirety of his pain and misery echoing forlornly within it, as the last, fatal throws of his innocence fell away to despair. His mother had been right when she told him that he would be hated, despised among those who should accept him, despite his face.
It was why he was here now, as his mother refused for him to remain in the house during the day, telling him to spend his time in the woods and not be seen by others. She had forbidden him to return until nightfall, explaining her reasons for evading him were, in fact, known as she wished for him not to trouble her while she worked for those who owned their home.
He had accepted her words without question, not wanting to evoke her anger upon him further. Besides which, his time alone only proved beneficial to him as he constructed small houses and buildings out of the meagre string, stones, and few sticks he found in his woodland paradise. These small, trivial things were his only friends, as they paid no heed to the mask he wore, or even what lay beyond it.
A deep and almost sorrowful sigh escaped him as he cradled the worn mask in his small hands. It was a pity that no one else, not the nameless father who was strangely absent from his life, or even his own mother, could see past the skeleton face, and come to accept him in spite of it. His meagre existence would have meaning then, as he would actually have a reason to smile.
His mother could perhaps come to love him then. The flawed child she had constructed within her mind would fall away and be replaced by her son whose imperfections were overlooked by her loving gaze. Perhaps, in time, his mother who had denied him to call her by that maternal title would see that he was not a monster or demon whose sole reason was to torment her.
Perhaps if he told her how much he loved her, then she would love him as well.
Perhaps.
He faintly smiled, for that one, singular word gave him hope. The irreplaceable emotion stirred within him, growing until it compelled him to consider telling her. His eyes moved to the sun, and his smile faded. It would be hours before sunset—too late to tell her what he felt. The burgeoning sensation would fade away as the sun eventually would, and would once again replace it with the cold, hopeless faith he harboured this morning.
No, he would tell her now. Then she would realise her own love for him as she lovingly embraced him within the warming rays of the sun. He would no longer have to hide from her; she would compassionately—and willingly—set aside the damning obstruction that separated them. She would finally see her son, and love him without question, the petty brown mask shattering, therefore falling into the forgotten strands of time.
After so many years of self-inflicted blindness, would she finally come to see her son? Inside, his mind told him it could never be, his heart, though, saying otherwise, for had she not cast him from her side and into the welcoming embrace of the woods by the time he reached his fourth year?
He shook his head in dismay, the cold truth of her crude dismissal always inflicting the same, undeniable pain of being unwanted. Even if such truths were irrefutable, he knew he would pursue this bout of insanity and see what would come of his newfound hope. She would soon see this truth. She had to.
Upon this strange and paradoxical turn of events, his gaze turned to the mask, the small fingers placing it upon the frail skin, and concealing the horror from all to see. The mask would fall away soon enough, he thought, as he departed from the sanctuary that had protected and guarded him for so long. Soon, he realised, he would no longer have any need for its defence against the world he had yet to know, the armour and shield set aside, no longer needed to save him.
He smiled at this, his tiny footsteps gaining ground as he saw the outline of his home in the distance, the sun's bright light revealing the myriad of holes in its roof, which could only be seen from within and not without.
The many days where rain had fallen through made him frown. It was a pity that his mother was unable to find anyone to repair it, as he felt the icy touch of winter upon him in the darker months. His mother was unable to do anything, it seemed. She had little time to tend to him, as she constantly reminded him of her needs elsewhere.
Inside, his childlike mind realised that she was just in her explanations of leaving him to his own devices. However, the logical and more concise part opposed his simple beliefs, arguing that his mother, in truth, wanted nothing of him, not even his love.
And that thought, though unsound and very untrue, made his heart quaver in despair.
Nevertheless, he would proceed with this and confront her with his feelings. She would then know that she had little reason to fear him—for he was most certain she did—and actually set aside the illusions of her flawed child and welcome his as she would one that was perfect in every way.
Underneath the mask he smiled, his eyes fixed upon the dilapidated foundations that was his home. His quest had come to an end, his hand reaching for the door's tarnished brass knob, as a floodgate of memories inundated his mind…
She had told him that he could only come into the house at night, after the sun had fallen from the sky. Only then could he come in and stay with her, living with the meagre comforts she reluctantly offered him.
A small portion of food—always cold by the time he arrived—waited for him in his room. The only other room he was ever permitted to enter was the hallway that led to the attic, which was also his room, as his mother had deemed it. Otherwise, all other rooms, including the small kitchen, were forbidden.
He always wondered why his mother never allowed him in the other rooms, but did not question it until now. Why did she refuse to be in his presence any longer than necessary? It was a question he would silently pose to his mother, but would never ask of her. For a part of him knew that his questions would invoke her wrath. And seeing his mother upset…caused pain—for both him and for her as well.
Even now, he could imagine the cries he could sometimes hear in the long hours of the night; his mother's crocodile tears that went unseen by him as he listened to her pleadings to someone being known as 'my lord.' God was another entity altogether.
He cast his dark musings aside as he heard his mother…crying once again. She was pleading to her lord, as if he were about to inflict harm upon her. Her cries of pain echoed, penetrating the broken-down door, and echoed forlornly within the ears of her son.
Fear overcame the momentary hesitance instilled within him. Whatever her pain, he would put an end to it, even if he had to inspire the anger of their landlord. His heart quickened, and his blood pounded madly against his mind. He had to go to her, even if she did not cry for him. And with this certainty, he opened the door and was blinded by what he saw…
For there upon his mother lay a monster, dark and brooding, the animalistic lust found within his black eyes mirroring the gloriously-pained exhaustion his mother's beautiful countenance portrayed.
He withdrew from the dismal, damning site, his masked face veiling the revulsion he felt inside when he continued to watch their silhouetted movements fall and fade against the wall, as the sunlight cast its ignoble rays upon them. To see his mother suffer to the will of one below her was too… sorrowful to even watch. But he knew that if he did not end this, then no one would.
A wondrous oscillation of anger empowered him with the will and strength to overcome his godlike adversary, the massive mound of perfect flesh irrelevant to the control harboured within his childlike frame. This man—monster of crude divinity—would no longer harm his mother, as he would no longer be able to surmount anyone with his power again.
And it was then he struck, hurling himself against the creature that dared taint his mother with the godlike speed and explosive anger from years of imprisoning it within. No more, he decided, as he pummelled the beast that cried in surprised.
An upsurge of violence invoked his present wrath, as the ire burned brilliantly within his golden eyes. He stared at his nameless adversary, a silent promise of retribution reflected within the molten amber depths.
"What in Hell?" the nameless beast cried, his grey eyes conveying annoyance. "Who are you?" he asked, his massive hand restraining the much smaller hands that refused to relent upon their painful opposition.
When no explanation was returned, the grey-eyed creature turned toward the woman who lay in shock upon the bed. "Who is he?" he asked, demanding an answer of her. His free hand grasped her named shoulder. "Who in the hell is he?"
She did not reply, for fear of answering him.
He glared at her, and then returned his metallic stare upon the boy who had interrupted them. "Who are you?" he asked, but received only the cold silence as an answer. "Damn you, boy. You will answer me!" He raised a hand in cold retaliation, which lingered within the air for a grave moment until it came crashing down, colliding against the clay mask, and thus casting it aside for all to see.
"My God," was all he could say, could manage under such appalling circumstances. He stared at the child whose unmasked visage loomed ominously within the broken strands of light, and he felt the dire dread of a dulled knife twist in his gut. This thing—no, creature—was nothing more than a demon spawned from the Hell that had created it.
He cast a baleful glance at his consort of three years and grimaced. "So the rumours were true, after all. You did give birth to a creature." His grey eyes mocked her. "You could have told me about him before I gave myself over to you."
"Ruelle, please," the angel upon the bed cried, her naked form shivering in spite of the summer heat.
Her dark-haired lover ignored her, however, as he gazed upon the demon before him. This child would one day become the instrument of pain and misery upon others. Death would be written on the tiny skeleton-like fingers that had clawed at him moments before. He inwardly shuddered that such damnably hideous hands could exact such cruelty. He would have to warn the others of this pestilence that thrived at the edge of their village.
Looking into the child's eyes, which were a colour that clearly marked him as evil, he silently promised him a quick, and hopefully, painless death. With the last amount of self-control, he shoved the boy away from him, and turned resentfully towards his beautifully-condemning paramour.
"Know that all relations that we have are severed from this moment forth. I will not contact you, nor visit you in any fashion necessary. Our former dealings are annulled, as you may continue to live here with the knowledge that I will not come to you. Nor will I acknowledge as anything more than a mere acquaintance."
"But, Ruelle—"
He raised a hand, silencing her. "You will not use my name in like manner again, madam. Please try to remember that I am married, and will not have you imagining anything between us anymore. I will lay no claim as to anything you may happen to say. Please do not be foolish enough to pursue whatever hopes that rest in you mind; it will end terribly for you." He glanced at the boy who remained where he was, silent and brooding. "And for your son as well, I urge you to consider this."
"You cannot leave!" she cried, her barely concealed body shamelessly colliding against him. "Please, he will not come in on us anymore. I will make sure of it."
A small fragment of what could be considered as pity lightened the harsh glare of his grey eyes. Reluctantly he grasped her, holding her against him. "You lied to me; you said he died during childbirth. You should have told me. I would have left Elise for you," he whispered against her, almost regrettably. "And now, with you deception, you have robbed me of your companionship." His voice fell short, leaving her with one dire promise mark of absolution: "Leave with your son, for I cannot promise what shall be done to him once the others know of his existence."
And with this unspoken vow of cruelty, he left, forsaking the sinfully glorious declarations of love he had uttered upon their first meeting. She stared at the door, feeling the coldness and despair he left in his wake. She considered her pain then, as it was also an end to the fantasy that they had created after her husband's leaving of her.
It now seemed as if her world came crashing down once again, the only remnant left that had remained unscathed by her misfortunes was the sacrilege that stood tearfully before her now. She glared her son, hating him for all he had caused. Inside her aching mind she realized that he had been the cause of her present misery, as he had also inflicted the grief and isolation years prior to her immaculate meeting with her Ruelle.
She cursed under her breath. Even her own husband was fortunately blessed that he had not seen the demon he produced. He had been relieved of that sinful burden only days before its impending birth, the brilliant, yet godforsaken, realization of it only furthered her present fury as she turned to her son.
Her eyes did not betray the indignant anger that now inflamed her remaining sanity. Her son—burden given by her own condemning God—would finally learn of his place in the world, and come to understand what it truly meant to fear.
"Come here," she said, her voice unmoving, cold in forcing him to obey. "Come to me, now."
He stood there, unable to move, for fear of what was to come.
Seeing his refusal, she moved; her gait unsteady by the anger that now consumed her, as all rationality melted away within her faulty steps. She stared at him for a moment, her green eyes becoming a marvellous shade of emerald as the long golden tendrils of her unkempt hair swayed madly within the light of the sun.
The anger that penetrated her was palpable, almost tangible, and searing. The fire that consumed her tortured her only child, as he inwardly flinched at the sight of her. She was a goddess unto him, one of fire and molten fury. And he felt crippled before her, his hopes of saving her falling into the dismal, abject void of dissolution. She did not need to be saved; she had willingly accepted whatever she had been offered.
A tear fell at the realization of it, and he turned away from her, as the pain and revulsion overtook him. He did not feel the icy grip on his shoulder, or even the forceful wrench that almost made him fall.
"I am not the one who needs to have my face covered," his mother muttered cruelly. "You will look at me."
"No," he whispered quietly, his innate fears compelling him to refuse. "I will not look at you, mother." Not when I know what you did, he silently thought, his downcast gaze holding nothing but hatred and shame.
And thus he remained silent, until the graceful descent of her hand collided with his cheek, turning the yellowed flesh to a dull red. He looked up at her, the golden eyes questioning why within their hollow sockets.
"You will not call me by that blasphemous name ever again. Do you understand?" She slapped him once more, and staggered away, seeing what she had done. "Look at what you make me do!" she accused, as tears of regret fell down her face.
She fell to the floor then, her knees crashing against the splintered wood flooring. Her golden hair covered her face, veiling the pained expression behind it, as the onslaught of tears and sobbing waves of remorse forcing her to feel a fragment of the torment she had imparted on her…son.
"Leave me," she finally said, the guilt within her voice echoing her own sorrow. "Leave me now…"
And so he did, as he turned and looked upon his mother with what could be considered as pity, pity for the poor decisions she had made, pity for the wasted time and irony of it all. He looked away from her then, his unmasked expression conveying the same, vacant disquiet as his mask had.
He glanced at the faded brown façade, but made no move to reclaim it. If she desired him to wear it, then she would be the one to cover his face. He had no further desire to hide something not of his own making. No, he would he torment her to the end of her days with his face, his painfully distorted face that she had birthed him with. No more would he feel shame, or even the self-pity he would, at times, have over his deformity.
His retreating footfalls made no sound as he ascended the winding, rotting stairs that led to his prison in the heavens. The sole comfort that derived from its dilapidated domain only furthered the need to isolate himself from a world he would never know, and now from the beautifully deceiving demon that cried her sorrows onto the cold wooden floor that was now stained by her remorseful tears and the darkening thoughts that would inevitably die with her…
…
The incessant sobs that forced his mother to evoke whatever heartache left within only emitted the years of anguish and self-blame she endured. She cried for the better part of an hour, until she wiped them away with a careless hand, vaguely noticing that time had passed at all.
She glanced around the room, her blurred vision looking for any semblance of solace. Her eyes, which were once filled with life were blind, dulled by the pain and loss she felt. It was if history had repeated itself, the cold, cruel machinations of fate compelling her to relive and renew the sins of her own, damning past. The past few years with her beloved had changed nothing, as she had been brutally shown this day.
Nothing of her former past remained. The few relatives that she might have confided in were now gone, lost to the rampant spread of cholera. They left her, their bloodstained words rending any comfort they could offer as they passed on, leaving her to suffer in this unforgiving hell alone.
And she was in Hell. Each and every day she endured the torment and utter torture of an unforgiving God and His righteous indignation.
She turned her head away, her eyes closing from the shame of it all. For one sin, one beautifully undeniable sin, she was punished, the remnants of everything she knew and loved gone within the fatal moment of her husband's discovery.
How he managed to find out she did not know, as he had been arranged to stay at his work for another week. The expectations of a beautiful stranger standing on her doorstep one stormy summer's night did not occur to her as it had all but stripped the matronly knowledge from her innocent mind.
She did not expect to commit any sin against her husband, or even God Himself, but the alluring appeal of the shivering form outside had coerced her to set aside her good faith and allow true pain into her home.
There were no expectations of breaching anything beyond obligatory kindness to this stranger. And yet, she had given herself over to him—body, heart, and mind. For how could she not when he was as beautiful as an angel and inherently mixed with an almost devilish air that made him almost…godlike.
He was divinity personified. With his sable-black hair and pale features, what woman could refuse such a man's gently provoking touch? And he had her soul the moment he spoke. That voice haunted her mind even now, as it echoed throughout the darkness of her dreams until she awoke to find herself alone and crying.
It was why she had chosen an alliance with her landlord, though his darkly handsome appearance could never eclipse that of the nameless stranger whose name she never knew.
And like a thief fleeing into the blissful cover of darkness, he had abandoned her, her body left wavering from his ethereal touch as her soul cried out to him into the soundless night. Their union, though fleeting as it was, was all she could think upon for days after. Even her husband had noticed the significant change within her, she recalled, as he mentioned it to her on a few heartrending occasions.
He never knew for sure, but had always suspected her infidelity. However, despite his growing suspicions, he stayed with her, giving her the simple comforts his masonry work could offer. And his payment for such kindness towards her came two years later, in the shape of an unborn child.
How he revelled in their marriage then. The same, wondrous sense of security in the first days of their marriage had returned, seemingly with a vengeance, as it was long since denied by his disbeliefs and loss of trust. It seemed that her husband had returned to her during those trying, yet wonderful, months of her pregnancy. She felt as if she had her husband—the one remaining piece of her past—back.
And then he came.
The unending hours of an untimely labour came into the late hours of night. There was no warning, no precaution taken to prevent the ill-timed arrival. Their child had decided to come of his own accord, and thus forcing her painfully altered body to relent its need to wait until full-term.
The midwife, whom she had sent for, and her husband were the only ones in attendance for the birth. The village priest had unfortunately been detained, due to the business of a neighbouring clergy, and could not tend to the child's baptism.
It was just as well, she coldly reflected, for the holy man would then know of the demon she had delivered in the early hours of dawn. The memory of it still made her shudder as she remembered the shrill cries of the child she had birthed. Its harrowing wails were a grim testament, a prelude to the punishment she would eventually endure.
She recalled the silence and the midwife's sudden act of crossing herself, the whispered mutterings to the Virgin Mary still echoed within her mind. Her husband's pale face was the next sign that confirmed her hidden iniquity, his ashen countenance reflecting something akin to despair.
But the third and final indication was the child itself; the twisted skeletal face had greeted her with its hideously beautiful golden eyes whose radiance emitted from the dark sockets that engulfed them. She had stared upon the face of Death that night, as she felt herself want to give in to the welcoming embrace of such a dark entity. She wanted to die, for she could not bring herself to suffer the impending agony of raising a monster.
She vaguely heard the cries from the midwife who wished to leave, the distant shouting of her husband returning the middle-aged woman's threat to tell the others of their child. The well-rounded face of the midwife had paled then, as she nodded hesitantly, promising that she would not utter a word concerning the demon she had helped deliver. It was not her sin, and nor would it be the cross she would have to bear for the rest of her life; she took the few meagre coins offered and left without a word, her clouded conscience cleared by the devil's gold she had readily accepted.
And in silence, she considered the events leading up to the midwife's sombre, albeit abrupt, departure. The gravity of the once-joyful occasion had soured in its nascent stages of life, just as the child itself, whose dreaded face and sinfully glorious cries deafened the silence that surrounded the distraught couple.
A moment passed into oblivion, as the brief, condescending waves of dissolution fell away to the growing apathy between man and wife. There was no solace, no sense of comfort for the damningly hideous burden that Fate herself had set to cast. As the absolution in which both desired could not be found within the corpselike visage of their son.
Her husband had found his voice then, though its refined masculine tone had been rendered to a stifled whisper. And deep within its raspy, guttural timbre lay the blame for what he had known all along; her sin against him.
He had called her a whore, a sinner, and a blasphemer, for she had borne a devil and not a child. And that, within itself, could never be forgiven, as the unpardonable sin against God and nature condemned her to suffer the dire outcome of her own transgressions. The veracity within his voice rocked the foundations of the world as the cold reality of her crimes settled in her aching mind.
An ill-fated tear fell from the memory of the pain of her husband's words, just as he told her that it would be her burden to raise the child, as he no longer considered her as his wife, not after that night.
And so, he, too, had abandoned her, leaving only the faint traces of his once-comforting presence to stay, lingering in the guilt-stained halls of the house that now lay in utter decay.
She reflected on his words, pondering, questioning. The birth of her son—the first and only child she would ever have—robbed her of any happiness, as her husband took her remaining will to live, with him. His crude departure and the events following it led to the brutal aftermath of a solitary sin that had somehow purged all lives into chaos in less than a sennight.
Somehow, she had forced herself from childbed and learned to manage feeding her deformed son, her method of using the previous day's milk, which had then soured, along with a diluted sleeping draught, rendered the child silent, as she kept it, hidden within the silent, impenetrable walls of the attic.
Her husband had not returned that day, or even the day after. And by the week's end, she had finally given up the last vestige of her hope for his return. Only the following Sunday, when she had not attended mass did someone come to relieve her of her present worry. The priest, along with her landlord, came, their twinned expressions mirroring a concerned sense of solemnity that remained unspoken.
They questioned her of the child that was strangely amiss from her womb. Her only answer, which had been carefully thought out a day before, was that it had died during the priest's absence, as it had been stillborn and therefore unable to have a proper baptism. The mystery of the child's remains was then answered by the belief that her husband, in his grief, went to bury the child without concern for its earthly soul.
Both priest and landlord accepted her words, though with a bitter stab of reluctance. The holy man had paled grievously over her grave explanation and asked for the location of the grave.
Her face remained impassive then, as it was now, for she had denied any knowledge as to where her husband buried their child, since he had not returned afterward. This minor deception somewhat appeased the priest, as he lamented that, even though he did not believe her child would enter into the limbo infantum, that he could not give it a posthumous christening, or even pray over its remains.
His regret for such tidings was almost tangible as he offered her counsel until she could fully return to church. She had denied him on both counts, and forever rendered any compassion he may have had, as she deprived herself of both him and God.
The priest had left then, wordlessly, as he shut the door behind him, and leaving the landlord to deliver such ill-tidings to the now-Godless woman.
And he had, she vaguely recalled. He had with sincerity and true concern, marking his regretful words with those of an unsaid, unspoken sense of compassion. He confessed his finding her husband's hanging body in his barn, as he omitted certain physical details of the shape it was in upon his finding it. Such dramatic imagery would inevitably force her to also wish for death. He had no desire to see her come to such an end.
He had promised a decent burial for her husband, though the body would not be permitted burial in the church cemetery since the death was a suicide. The superstitious and over-glorified spiritual beliefs of the parish had seen to that, as those beliefs would inevitably deem her a pariah, since her, her husband, and anabaptized child fell short of God's noble grace.
Her landlord had kept his promise to her, her offers to pay him for the burial and also living under his graces had been kindly refused, as he promised her that he would see to taking care of any financial concern she would eventually have.
He had kept that promise for seven years—never once failing in procuring anything she might need so that she could remain untouched, unscathed by the cruel words of those who despised her. She was blissfully unaware of what they called her, as she remained in an ivory tower of glorious ignorance with her memories…and her son.
She had successfully managed to hide her deformed child from everyone, especially from the one who cared for her. Her simplistic means of rearing her son to an age where he could think, act, and understand only furthered her desire to be rid of him, which she had when her relationship with Ruelle began.
Her son, though wise beyond his years, was unaware of her association with their landlord. It was perhaps a maternal instinct to keep such things from upsetting him, as she did not wish to tell him that he had indeed been the cause for the absence of his father. The clay mask she had constructed for him was enough to conclude the reasons as to why he had to remain hidden, unknown to the rest of the world. She had not even given him a name, seeing as she could not find it within herself to even consider any human qualities within him.
He was, to her eternal shame, nothing more than a burden, bestowed upon her by a vengeful God. And much like the marked forsaken son of the first man, she could not release her poorly misshapen offspring from the potential suffering that he would, one day, endure. As she could not end her own unending torture by murdering the creature that dared call her mother.
A tear, both sorrowful and profound in its entirety, fell from her eye then, which seemingly held the misery and sole dejection for both mother and child that the world would never know.
She wiped the last fragments of her pain away, as her tearstained eyes fell upon the discarded mask that lay coldly against the floor. She stared at it, considered it, her mind questioning, debating.
Carefully she moved to where the mask lay, as a pale hand gracefully lifted it from the floor. She looked at it, noticing the minute signs of wear it had endured over the years. This mask was the only gift she had ever given him, as the day of his birth had been long since forgotten in the harrowing strands of time.
This mask, she realised, was a vulgar reminder, a dark symbolization of all she had lost. With the foreboding advent of her son's birth, she had lost her husband. And with the consequential worry that he seemed to show for her, he had inadvertently caused the last semblance of kindness and normalcy to forsake her.
Her son, her eternal affliction, was all that remained, after—everything. And she found herself hating his malformed visage once more, as he paralleled that of her original sin. She decided then. For it was truly time to end this. Her misdeeds would finally be absolved before the sun's last rays eclipsed the darkening skies. And then, then God Himself could no longer finds the means to abhor her sinful existence.
And with this wondrous revelation, she turned towards the stairs and ascended into Heaven, the clay mask within her hand.
…
The sound of his mother's footsteps made him shudder, as his golden eyes reflected only dismay from the impending grief he would inevitably endure. He sighed, and looked once more to the anatomy book, ignoring the stifled gasp caused by his presence on the stairs.
"Madam," he gently whispered in greeting.
"Why are you not in the attic?" she asked, her eyes darting to the book's finely-detailed structure of a human corpse.
"I would have stayed in there, but I could not bear the heat." He vaguely wiped the skein of sweat from his forehead, his eyes remaining upon the book.
She ignored his explanation, and asked, "Where did you find that book? I do not recall having anything like that in the study." When he did not answer her, she continued. "It is of little consequence where you found it. I have no desire to punish you over it. Also, I wished to give you this." She handed him the mask, which he gingerly accepted. "You left it downstairs."
He looked down at the mask in his hand, his fingers lightly tracing over the ancient brown clay. His crooked teeth clasped his lower lip, twisting it into a terrible grimace. The hope that she would somehow allow him to live without it was crushed, just as she turned her sight away from him once more.
The slow, purposeful steps of her descent echoed within the hollow distance, and she retreated once more to the material comforts of beauty and pleasure. He watched her leave, seeing how beautiful she was, and how he longed to somehow be loved, if only for a moment, by his mother.
"Mother," he cried out, without truly meaning to. He gasped when he saw her turn to him, and felt a sudden fear that moved him the moment her eyes looked deeply into his. "Mother, please," he said again, pleading with her, as a thin, skeletal hand reached out for hers. "Do not leave me." His head inclined in abject shame at his words, but he could not prevent them from voicing his pain. "Mother, I love you."
And then the world fell away from those three, beautifully condemning words.
She smiled at him—her horribly flawed son—and took his dead hand in hers. "I have something for you, something I have wanted to give you for quite some time. Will you wait for me in the attic while I find it?"
His malformed lips twisted into a horrible grin, as tears fell from the empty eye sockets. "Yes, Mother, I will wait for you," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper when he uttered her maternal name without fear while she left him to his blissful ruminations.
He vaguely heard the door open as footsteps, almost inaudible in their need to be silent, proceeded into the attic. His twisted lips smiled in visible delight, as he awaited his present.
"Mother?" he gently whispered.
"I am here. Do not turn around, my darling," she quietly murmured, closing the door behind her.
She received an expectant nod, and he remained silent, awaiting her gift to him. She looked at the mask her hands held, its finely-crafted façade a dramatic parallel to the one she had crudely made for him so long ago. No, this one, with its affinity to the prisoner's mask, was neither velvet nor iron, but made of a fine cast of ivory-white porcelain.
Her fingers traced over its smooth white surface, and she smiled. A small metal lock had been crafted to hold the mask in place, its sole purpose in keeping the wearer from losing it. It was a perfect gift, one in which she had found while travelling with Roulle to Rouen two years before.
It had been issued by divine providence that she found it while her lover saw to business concerning his estates. Her time in the antiquarian's shop led her to many curiosities, which hailed from the distant shores of the East. But nothing compelled her sight more than the mask that lay before her, its beguiling, solemn expression entrancing her. She had been in awe by its strange, yet wonderful, simplicity, as the lock induced her to purchase it.
The small, ancient shopkeeper, whose antiquarian visage daunted her with its advanced age, sold her the mask without question as he concealed it, with a golden key, in a wooden black box to keep the mask hidden from the probing eyes of the world.
Ruelle had questioned her over the box's contents upon her return, but relented when she said that it was a secret. He had questioned her no further when she cleared all of damning his curiosity away with a simple kiss, the tiny black box forgotten as it lay under the seat of their coach.
She considered her past motives when she returned home that evening two years ago, for she would have given it to her son then, but did not have strength to. Besides, the mask would not fit until he became an adult, which was still so far away. And she did not have that time. No, the mask would fit, she would see to it, as she held it behind her back.
A wave of confidence replaced her reservations as she stepped forward, her footsteps drawing her inexorably to the absolution she sought. She glanced at her son whose distorted face conveyed nothing but love for her. She smiled at this, and briefly considered what she was about to lose, but also what she would gain with such a sacrifice.
"Close your eyes, my darling. I have your surprise," she whispered ever so gently, waiting for him to complete this final act of contrition.
And he obeyed, patiently waiting. "I am ready, Mother," he returned with like anticipation. "I am ready for my surprise."
"Of course you are, my darling," she quietly agreed, the mask remaining behind her back. "And here it is," she murmured faintly, as she forced it against his face, locking it before he could remove it.
"Mother!" he cried, his haunted yellow eyes glowing behind the mask's solemn face. "Why?" he asked, his beautiful dulcet voice a dark reminder to the one who had seduced her long ago.
She looked at him, her once-resplendent eyes becoming hollow at his cries. "Because I cannot bear to live with you any longer!" she shouted, the deep, fettered need to release her pain finally revealing itself at last. "Your face…it torments me. It has since the day you were born."
Her son shook his head in disbelief. "But, Mother, I thought—"
"You thought?" she crudely interjected. "You thought what, my darling? You thought that I could allow you to show your hideous face to me, and there would be nothing but love for it?" She shook her head at his blind assumptions.
"You are foolish to believe that I could ever love you," she muttered, as the tears of pain finally fell. "How can I love something that is not even my own child? My God, I could not bring myself to even give you a name, for how can monsters have one?" she asked, her cold emerald eyes mirroring his sadness. "You have robbed me of any happiness I may have had. Your father is no longer here. And Ruelle…" She cast her eyes to the floor, silently cursing her son until she whispered, "And all of this was because of him…"
She looked at her son, her ethereal eyes stony, devoid of life. "Our pain shall end now," she whispered softly, "For I am going to save you from a life cruelty and pain." She turned to the door, opening it with a marked hesitance of her own shame. "I am sorry that I could not love you. Perhaps God will forgive us both."
And with this, she closed the door, locking it as the cries of her son shattered her remaining sanity. She heard him, his disjointed pleadings to open the door furthering the guilt she already had.
"Mother, please," he begged, his small hands, which were now bleeding pulled vainly at the mask's rusted lock. "I cannot remove this mask! It will not come off! Please, Mother! I cannot breathe!"
His cries of pain echoed into the stairway, and she could bear it no longer. She looked at the locked door in utter despair, for her choice led to things that could not be undone. She could not save her son now; his death would be her freedom.
"I will not open the door. Nor will I let you out," she cried against the hellish threshold. "You will wear the mask." She closed her eyes, as her tears whose vibrant strands of pristine condemnation fell. "And you will die in it," she muttered regretfully.
She turned away from the door then, leaving her son to suffocate in the brutal inferno that consumed him, his cries of agony, leaving only a painful reminder to which she had lost, and would never have the after the last, final cry from his lips echoed one damning word: mother.
But much to her dismay, that was not the last word he cried as he turned to the window, his only escape from this prison, and also his salvation. He glanced at the discarded clay mask that lay idly upon the floor, his tiny hand retrieving it, clasping it in despair, as the tragedy of his life permeated the growing anger that raged within his trembling form.
He stared at the mask coldly before throwing against the attic's hollow walls. He watched as it shattered, the broken clay shards falling to the wooden floor with the graceless appeal that reflected his distorted visage. He felt unmoved from his loss, however—the liberation of such an act seeming to console him as he gathered the only remaining things he loved.
The few pieces of worn clothes, an apple, which had wilted from the sun's unforgiving touch, and the anatomy book was all he cared to take from this hell, and he cast aside any thought of reconciliation with her behind. He glanced at the door. It was a shame that he did not even know her name, for she always demanded of him to call her madam
His lips twisted in pain as he climbed through the tiny window, to the world outside. He slightly frowned as he noticed that his escape required the use of an ancient dead tree. And he carefully lowered himself from the roof, grasping onto the branches of the lifeless oak and descended from its spidery appendages to the ground that promised his freedom.
He stood upon it then, his masked expression conveying nothing but a sense of bittersweet irony, his bloodied hands lingering with purpose as they held onto the remainders of his tattered life. He could not deny that he felt sadness and regret for living, but he did not harbour any remorse for his departure.
A gentle sigh escaped him, and he allowed himself to shed one, final tear for everything. It was time, he realised, time to accept his ugliness and the hatred of the woman he no longer called mother. As it was time that he set aside any hope of loving anyone, and having that false emotion be returned. The woman who had reluctantly bore him had taught him that.
He looked away from the house then, his yellow eyes considering the path that lay before him. It was the answer he had long sought, yet never found, for it was a world he had yet to discover. His eyes never left the distant horizon that beheld the promise of what was to come, while the temptation he innately had to look back upon the life he would leave behind was sharply quelled, as he moved forward, nameless, his perfectly masked visage embracing the last, dying rays of the setting sun…
And thus marked the true beginning of his life, he thought bitterly, his eyes moving to the faint scarring upon his hands. The mask's rusted lock had cut through the fragile flesh when he had tried to remove it, leaving only a dark testament of the cruelty of one who desired his death in exchange for her freedom. And she gained it. She truly found absolution for the sins—as she once called them—from the God she had unjustly wronged.
Erik faintly smiled. His disfigurement and overall burden upon her was merely a recompense for her crimes against the divine. The lifetime—or rather, span of seven fleeting years—had only furthered the guilt she felt for the sins she committed. She never told him why she deserved such an imperfect and flawed child as he. And he never asked her.
The concerns he had for her and the acquiring of a love he once desired were no longer important, obsolete in his feelings of a woman who had never even given the smallest of all gifts to her child: a name.
His twisted lips melded into a terrible grimace. She had gifted him with that honour. And he had accepted it without question. Erik. The eternal king of sorrow had at last found his place in a world that feared him. And it was this fear that he managed to carve a name for himself in the shallow rock of existence, where all souls denied him of the life and acceptance he deserved but one…
Christine.
The very thought of the angel who accepted every flaw, every tattered fragment of his soul moved the dead muscle within his chest, and thus resurrected his corpse to live as a man once again.
She was the reason he lived now, as he found himself desire an evasive emotion he had once sought, but never found. Her love would save him, and give him the chance to return it—if only to her. He would love her as the world ended with its final, fated breath, and even after all were judged would he find her to be his and his alone.
The clock chimed the late hour, all thoughts of his beloved Christine shattering at its final stroke. It was time, he realised. The Opéra would begin soon, and with it his angel would have her last performance as its brightest star. For no longer would she sing upon its stage, as she would sing solely for him.
His chest ached with the knowledge of it, and he felt the intrinsic pull of her voice call to him once more with its soundless plight. She needed him, now. He could feel the pain within her pleas; hear the ever-present fear within her soft voice as she cried his name in a gentle whisper.
He silently cursed himself, his hands reaching for the discarded mask. He glanced at it for a silent moment, noticing the slight wear of age within its otherwise smooth surface. He frowned at it, as he placed it over his cold dead flesh, and once more hiding the tragedy of his face. He did not even feel the slight indention where the lock had been when he fastened the leather straps that now connected it.
The fact that he held on to this ancient memento—the final and most significant gift his mother had given him—pained the last, visible traces of his remaining humanity. But he could not think of that now. Tomorrow perhaps, but not now; his angel was calling to him.
…
Author's Note: One cannot imagine how difficult for me that was to write. Hopefully, everyone will understand that this work is based on my own beliefs of the relationship between Erik and his mother. I go by no other interpretation other than Leroux, and since he Erik's childhood it a little vague I found that I could make my own assumptions, without worry of contradicting anything.
Anyway, the story flashbacks may have been a little confusing, so I separated Erik's point of view and that of his mother's with my trademark ellipses. It was becoming difficult to write the past within a story that takes place in the past. I think I used the word 'had' over a hundred times. ;)
Nevertheless, I will confess that even though this pained me to write something so tragically heartfelt—because Erik's story is—that I believe it gets the message across as to why Erik is the way that he is. I mean I had to almost numb myself from breaking down while writing this.
I tried to humanize Erik's mother. I honestly did. And it may seem that my dislike for her shows, but I wanted to try to characterize her as being a woman whose insecurity and pain led her to treat her son so terribly. That is why I wrote her perspective on things.
Also, Erik's father was not the man she had an affair with, as it may have sounded. I know the likeness between the two, with the voice and paralleled appearance, might have looked to be that, but it wasn't.
I went with the logical belief that science and the laws of genetics clearly shows that a child can look like neither of its parents. Whereas, the spiritual belief that her husband mentioned could also be the reason as to why Erik was unlike his parents. I leave the reader to decide which.
On a final note, there are allusions all throughout this story. The one that may stand out the most is the similarity between the names Ruelle and Raoul. They share the same meaning: a wolf. I wanted to express why Erik loathes hearing Raoul's name in my other story, and I thought that this was an interesting approach to answering that.