A/N: I return to offer yet another Phantom of the Opera piece for my beloved readers. Like my others, this one is based more around the movie's version of events with some details from Webber's musical tossed in the mix. I consider this a "what if" scene beginning with the events that transpired in the cemetery and ending just before Don Juan Triumphant.
I will say that I am considering a sequel piece to this story, and if you as my audience would like to see such a thing written, please let me know in one of those lovely little things called a review. And don't forget to tell me what you thought about this piece too, while you're at it. Thank ye kindly!
Title: Where Dark Meets Light
Summary: In the face of her past mistakes, Christine must choose if lies are easier to accept or if the truth is easier to live.
Character Pairing: Erik x Christine
Rating: T for mild suggestive content
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events associated with The Phantom of the Opera. Everything belongs to their respective owners. I own only my motivation for this little story, nothing more and nothing less.
We welcome passion, for the mind is briefly let off duty.
~Mignon McLaughlin
The name Christine Daaé is one that would inspire a wide variation in responses, depending upon to which random soul you offered it. If, for example, you were to speak my name to Monsieur André or Monsieur Firmin, you might receive a comment or two regarding the absurd notes they receive on a daily basis that almost always involve some command or another to cast me in the leading role of any given opera. If you were to ask Meg Giry for her opinion, she would likely return the question with an extensive list of memories that involve all the "good times" we have had as two girls growing up in the opera house dormitories—and she would probably divulge a few secrets or two in the process. And then, if you were to ask Carlotta for her opinion, you would most likely receive a reaction akin to the one a person gives when asked about the rats that live in the sewers.
My name means many things to those around me, but if you were to ask me of what I thought my name was indicative, the answer is both simple and complex. I am a living and breathing contradiction. I am the embodiment of irony. I employ deceit as my ally even as I spurn its very presence in my life. I wear a mask both on and off the stage—in the public's view I am a tender woman still wrapped in the innocence and purity of youth, a precious little doll who must be handled with great care and treated like a princess. In the solitude of my heart, in those rare but beloved moments of silence where there is no one to bear witness, I am a creature thriving on the secret treasures of music, a being who lives and breathes for no other purpose but to learn all that music has to offer and thrive in each and every lesson. I will sing lulling melodies fit for the public's protected ears, but my throat aches and burns until it tastes the forbidden fruit of a different kind of music.
His music.
And yet I have consistently hidden my desires behind the mask of a sweet and naïve child, for I would prefer to play the helpless coward in this story and hide myself within the lies of perfection and innocence. I am accustomed to this life—I had lived my whole life this way before he came into my life and ripped away the mask that, at the time, I didn't even realize I was wearing.
Erik has that effect on people...but most especially, he has that effect on me. With nothing but a well-placed word or simple thrum of notes emitting from his organ, he can shatter the illusions which I have previously spent so much time constructing and send me spiraling into a world of nothing but music. It is a mystical world, altogether beautiful in its forbidden splendor and terrifying in its passionate construction. It is a world where rules and regulations, propriety and delicacy, and most especially innocence and purity have no place. The moment his music breaches my ears and seeps its way into my veins, I have neither the will nor the desire to play a role or wear a mask. In the throes of his music, I shed my costumes and masks and allow Christine Daaé to live freely. In his music, Christine is neither the carefree ballerina or the modest and demure opera diva; she is a passionate creature who longs to rip away the mask baring her from Erik's heart and soul—and by default, expose the blatant distortions of his face—and love the man beneath it all.
But that isn't Erik's way at all. Even he, the man who made me into such a reckless and obscenely passionate being, is not willing to offer that which I crave at the deepest root of my core. He sees only with his eyes and not his heart even when he professes otherwise. He dares to claim that I could learn to love him if I would see past the distortion of his face, but he cannot love me because of the perfection he sees etched into every inch of my body. In the face of his his fear and reluctance, I found an escape within Raoul's arms. And it was truly an escape—this meager concept of love where nothing would be required of me save perhaps a willingness to abandon music for the luxuries of a Vicomte's life.
If only it were so simple.
Even here in the solitude of a cemetery, I could not deny the music that surrounds me, heart and soul. I heard the softest little melody as I stepped through the gates and drifted through the snowy banks. The music existed around and within me—the crunch of snow beneath my feet, the whistle of wind dancing across marble angels and iron bars...even the thrum of my heartbeat inspires music to resonate forth from my lips. And even here I don't refuse the urge to sing. Let sculpted angels and buried corpses be my only audience, still I will sing and not know regret for it. To sing for an audience who will never respond to your song is an easy matter, and I allowed myself to thrive in it for those sweet moments even when my song was for grief, not joy.
But there was one living witness to my song, and the moment I heard his voice call for me was a true moment of conflict within my heart.
I can hear Erik's voice even when he offers nothing above a whisper. My heart recognizes his voice and brings me toward his presence even when it is but a disembodied melody drifting across snow-streaked stone and marble. My mind wildly beats and warns me against it, trying to turn me from him with the memory of his crimes against the opera house and the raging terror I feel in the presence of his temper. My mind has tried many times before to turn me from him...and each time it has failed. My soul hears him and answers eagerly in kind. My soul obeys him.
My soul loves him.
Ah, such a wretched contradiction am I! One moment I am drawing closer and closer to my fallen angel with my skin already aching to feel his touch and reacquaint itself with the chill of his flesh, and the next I am brought to a sudden stop by the call of another voice—Raoul. Raoul with his pristine appearance and flawless features, riding in tall and proud like the knight to the princess' aid. Raoul with his kind words but ignorant heart who sees only what he deems necessary. He heard the rumors and tales of Erik's murderous deeds and monstrous features and thus branded his soul that of a demon and a plague upon my heart and mind—a heart and mind he considers that of a helpless child in need of rescuing, and naturally he is the savior I need. He is the hero, Erik is the villain, and I am the pretty princess in the middle of it all.
Poor Raoul...his greatest offense was not protecting me but in loving a piece of my heart that no longer existed.
I watched as he valiantly battled Erik across the cemetery grounds, and I could not discern a proper course of action that will not ultimately allow the darkness of my heart to penetrate the pure features of my skin. My mind implored me to remain in place and wait until the battle has reached its end, and if I held even a droplet of respectability within my senses I would rejoice if Raoul stood the victor in this senseless affair. Perhaps I would even be flattered that he was so willing to throw himself in harm's way to defend my honor—my honor, as though I had any such thing left!
But the call of my heart was stronger, and I followed its lead and rushed forward to never lose sight of two men viciously battling one another around my father's grave. Oh God, my dearest Papa! What would he think if he knew what his proper Christian child had become, dismissing the valiant deeds of a Vicomte for want of an disfigured outcast who could kill without a qualm and eagerly invited me to taste the sinful delights of the darkness?
I dared to lift my eyes and find Papa's face etched in marble as it had been for the last agonizing years since his death. This was hardly a fitting depiction of his face. My Papa had always smiled with warm lips and tender eyes that sparkled with his laughter. He was not so frozen and stoic as this image dared presume him to be...no, were he standing here with flesh upon his bones and blood still in his veins, he would have brought me to his arms and sang me a little song to soothe away my fears.
...and how often had Erik done the very same thing? Even now in the most inappropriate of times to be considering such things, I could vividly recall his golden voice lulling away my concerns and fears, my insecurities and even the most absurd worries I could have ever proposed to him. Patient and compassionate...that had been his way. Even after I destroyed his carefully constructed illusion of angels lingering just behind a pane of glass in my dressing room, still he had consented to forgive me if for no other reason than I had loyally returned to his side. With the mask once again in place, perhaps he believed I would not know disgust for him any longer even though I had seen what lay beneath that pristine barrier.
The truth was...I didn't know disgust for him at all, mask or no mask. In fact, I tasted only a little disappointment and frustration at the presence of his mask. After I had seen the truth, illusions no longer seemed favorable. Even if the reality wasn't the picture-perfect fantasy of my youth, it was still a reality I was more inclined to accept. Truly...I desired the truth—ugly as it was—because it was mine. Erik's face was mine—it belonged to me! God forgive me, I almost didn't begrudge him for killing the others who had seen his face. No one else but I had the right to see it and live.
But even as I tasted the joy of having something to call my own, I knew I did not yet have the one thing I truly wanted—his heart. I had his face, his sins, even his tears to hold and treasure, but so long as he allowed disfigurement to stand between us I would never know his heart. And if I didn't know his heart...I would never know his body. I would never taste the thrill of our bodies joined together as one, connected more deeply than two people could ever imagine. I would never know the feel of his lips against mine, the touch of his hands running through my hair and across my skin...I would never know any of it, because even if he believed we could know physical pleasures without him exposing what was left of his heart, I wouldn't allow it. Having his body would mean nothing if I couldn't have his heart.
The question still remained...did he have mine? Could he have mine, without restraint or bargain or condition? Could I let myself be strong enough to give him all of me and never regret any of it?
My thoughts were forcefully interrupted—perhaps for the better—as I watched Raoul suddenly gain the upper hand and throw Erik off balance to the ground. Snow flew about, tossed by the forceful kick of Raoul's boot as he shoved Erik's sword aside and simultaneously raised his own with a cry of rage.
I have always considered myself a cautious child, always thinking before I allowed myself to act. But since I met Erik, that seemed to change. I don't think I ever fully considered the consequences of my actions before I accepted his invitation down into the depths of the opera house, and I certainly didn't stop and think before I removed his mask. He had broken down my previously rational thought processes and left only impulse to control my actions. It was a dangerous way to live, especially when so many of the actions I was inspired to take held their own array of consequences.
But in this moment, the consequences were left unconsidered as my heart spurred my body forward into action. Snow leaped about my feet as I rushed toward Erik—not Raoul, Erik...always Erik—with my mind only briefly, faintly registering that I was putting myself directly in the path of a sword.
Unconcerned for the complete impropriety of the situation, I threw myself across Erik's vulnerable frame. The thick wool of my cloak fell across his thighs and pooled around my dress as I knelt beside my teacher and used my upper body to protect him. My curls fell loose of their bonds and tumbled across his face, and I heard a soft sigh as he learned their texture against his unmarked cheek. Had the situation been different, I might have smiled to know I had managed to bring him even the slightest taste of joy. I could hear bliss in the exhales of breath he let fall upon my skin, and I was humbled to think he could taste such things in the wake of senseless rage that had driven him half-mad over these last few months.
"Christine, are you mad?" Raoul demanded, looking completely incredulous at my behavior, yet I returned his disconcerted expression with defiance and determination. I could question the motives behind my actions later. All that mattered now was keeping Erik safe from that blade. "Stand back before you get hurt!"
I shook my head even as a tremble coursed through my frame—the unfortunate curse of uncertainty still clung to my senses and demanded me to take refuge behind Raoul as any innocent maiden ought to. I had nothing else to combat such fear save the feel of Erik's body brushing against mine. It wasn't enough, and I curled my fingers in the rough material of his suit jacket for need of tangible proof that he was here, still living and breathing and not pierced through the heart by unforgiving steel.
Almost ghostlike, I felt his gloved hand cup my elbow. The touch was discrete, hidden by the thick veil of my hair that fell about our bodies in a shroud not even Raoul could peer through. For a moment, I could hardly believe it even as it elated and thrilled my nerves more intimately than a passionate kiss or lustful touch. My heart thrummed wildly within my heart to finally feel his touch again...God, it had been too long.
"Christine, move!" Raoul again demanded me to do the very thing I had absolutely no intention of doing. My heart and mind felt at peace here, suspended in this one precious moment where even with the Vicomte in our midst we could savor each others' presence. To break such a precious moment was unthinkable, and I wanted to curse Raoul for trying.
But words failed me in this moment, and perhaps they were ultimately useless. If words were not woven into song, what purpose could they possibly serve?
I allowed silence to speak for me as I met Raoul's furious gaze, and in place of my voice I only shook my head. If he still wanted to kill Erik, he would have to send that blade through my heart first.
"Christine!" he took hold of my arm this time and tried to pry me away, "Christine, for God's sake—"
The very sight of his hands upon me spurred Erik to action, and Raoul's extended hand was quickly seized in a vice-like grip that drew a startled gasp from the Vicomte before he was hurled down to the snow. I obediently slipped back as Erik stood and regained his defined posture as the Opera Ghost, mismatched eyes burning down upon Raoul with unmistakable hatred.
"Leave, Vicomte," his voice was cold and burned against my ears as though I were the true recipient of his hate—and perhaps I was, "Leave before your life is nothing more than another stain upon my hands."
Raoul called out for me again, still playing the noble hero, but I kept my eyes trained on Erik's face while grieving that he would not return my gaze. It would have been less painful if he'd struck me across the face.
My silence served as answer enough for Raoul, and after a brief moment I heard him leave just as he'd come in—still proud and stubborn and believing he was doing the right thing by forcing Erik from my life. I knew this affair was not concluded, and I dreaded having to return to the opera house and dealing with him again.
Trying to find solace I reached for Erik's arm, only to watch as he ripped it from my hold and faced me with his unmarked features twisted in his anguish. I felt sick just looking at it. Only a few months earlier, he had never looked at me with anything less than reverence and adoration. Now his features held nothing but anger and frustration as he surveyed me on the snowy ground. Once, only for a fleeting moment, his expression softened as he witnessed the sheen of tears across my eyes. But as soon as I blinked it was gone, and there was only anger to be seen.
"Spare me your pity, Christine." he hissed, and I visibly trembled at the venomous sound, "I have no use for it."
He turned and fled back to the shadows as though he truly belonged in their presence, as though he were still only phantom and not the man I knew. It would have been the act of a woman with common sense and rationality still on her side to flee in turn and ride back to the security of the opera house as though this horrid moment never existed. It was the act of a fool to follow Erik when knowledge of what lay within those shadows was lost to the mind and could easily mean death or some unimaginable torture.
Ah, yes...the fool I was.
I found myself surrounded by darkness, lost in some underground corridor to which Erik's footprints had led and then promptly disappeared within the thick shadows all around me. The cold seemed much more evident down here, and suddenly the comfort of my cloak no longer seemed enough to shield me from such a penetrating chill that seeped down into my bones and nearly rendered me immobile.
I managed to use the walls as my guide through the corridor for a little while, my ears sharply tuned to catch all sounds around me and compensate for my blindness. I reached out with one hand while using the other to anchor myself to the dirt-caked walls, searching for anything and everything that might belong to Erik—the feel of his clothes, the firm outline of his mask, even the chill of his skin. But still there was nothing.
My knees touched the ground and I felt the frozen chill even through the layers of skirts that were supposed to protect me. Quivering, I brought my arms around me, drawing the cloak even closer and trying to gather some vestiges of heat to warm my numbed body. Tears slipped down my cheeks, weighing heavy and cold on my skin. It would have been easier if they'd fallen to my lap, but instead they clung jealously to my face and forced my hand to leave the cocoon of my cloak in order to forcefully wipe them away.
An hour, a day, or perhaps only a few minutes could have passed as I sat quivering and sobbing in the darkness. Time escaped through my hands and left me without any concept of the passing minutes as they bled into hours, and I longed for the warmth of candlelight dancing across my skin while the long fingers of a passionate musician followed with purposeful and intoxicating caresses to my face, my throat and shoulders...my arms and waist...
Once again, darkness bid me to shed the mask of propriety and respectable innocence, and once again I obeyed without hesitation. From memory I summoned the third act aria from Erik's Don Juan without difficulty; of all the scores written across that paper in his elegant scrawl, the duet was the one that rang through my every waking thought as though my sole purpose in life was to memorize and practice every single line until I could be on that stage and allow the notes to take flight. But even then it wouldn't be the same...I was supposed to sing that beautiful and overwhelmingly passionate aria with Piangi, of all people! The very memories stirred by yesterday's rehearsal left me shuddering and repulsed to think I was expected to endure such torture.
Forcing away the unpleasant recollection of Piangi's large and meaty hands sputtering about on my body while he massacred Erik's notes, I sought the erratic thrum of my heartbeat to give my voice the strength it needed to lift in music-less melody. At the very thought of singing this melody once again, my pulse slowed to a softer beat and with it my confidence grew. Even if I was singing to shadows and faceless beings that may or may not still lurk about in the dark, I would sing all the same. Music was the purest component of my very soul, and without it I was truly nothing.
The words felt light upon my tongue as they resonated throughout the corridor. In the darkness I could hear my voice as I had never heard before, and it was strong and confident with every chord and note that existed only in my head and within my ears. In the darkness, I was not the frightened and indecisive maiden or a heartbroken lady weeping for lost love. I was Aminta, the woman once lost and now found through the temptation of a love that promised to draw her within its depths and never again release her. If only I could have been so confident and strong as to accept such a promise, for it had once been a very real promise in my life before I'd allowed fear to control my heart and throw me into Raoul's arms.
With Aminta's courage as my own, even if only for a fleeting moment, I threw myself wholeheartedly into the aria and extended my arms to a faceless lover. In the darkness I could still pretend that a man of flesh and blood stood there before me, half of his features left exposed and untouched by Fate's cruel hand, the other half of his face disguised behind a pristine facade of white that could penetrate even the thickest shadows. In my mind's eye, I could see those features that I loved and adored, and my fingers extended to touch them and rip away every last barrier until my skin could touch his mangled flesh and claim it as my own.
A gloved hand caught mine in the darkness with long fingers curling around to entrap my small palm in its hold, and the voice of an angel lifted to meet mine.
Oh God...yes, yes, yes! This was how it was meant to be! Of course Erik hadn't written Don Juan's role with Piangi envisioned—it was supposed to be him! Erik was supposed to be on that stage singing with me, caressing me with his touch and seducing me with his voice. It was supposed to be Erik's hands upon my skin with his lips lingering so close to my ears while I melted against his body. It was supposed to be Erik...only Erik, always Erik, forever Erik!
I forced my fingers between his, fiercely clutching his hand in my hold and bringing myself closer with that single connection as my guide. I left the security of the wall and drifted forward into the darkness to be closer to my teacher, but when I was expecting to find the solid structure of his body within a few short steps, I instead found myself moving ever forward. Only a moment later, I finally understood. Erik was leading me through the corridor—his eyes knew and welcomed the familiarity of the darkness when mine were rendered blind and vulnerable without a trace of light to aid me. His hand held mine firm and close with no intention of letting me go, still lifting his voice to mingle and entwine with mine as we moved as one down the corridor. I knew no fear as he led me away; I trusted him completely.
As the duet faded away, my eyes caught the glimmer of light dancing across a transparent surface...a mirror? Yes, of course! It was the mirror to my dressing room. Had such a long journey really passed so quickly? It didn't seem possible, and I would have been lying if I'd denied a prick of disappointment to think this blissful moment was now to come to an end.
"Here," Erik's voice startled me a bit; he hadn't actually spoken the entire way here, only sung with that golden voice and encouraged my absurd fantasy that we were in fact Don Juan and Aminta proclaiming love and lust all in one glorious aria. "You seem quite ready for your performance tomorrow night, and I expect nothing less than what you just demonstrated."
"I don't want to sing with Piangi." I whispered, shuddering slightly at the very thought of it. My fingers clutched at his arm and pulled his surprisingly willing body toward me. My free hand cupped his unmarked cheek and I relished a soft gasp from his lips at the soft touch. "I want to sing with you, ange. That duet is meant to be ours...we're supposed to be on that stage together!"
"Piangi is cast as Don Juan, just as you are cast for Aminta." he answered quietly, and even in flickering light I knew his eyes were avoiding my gaze. "You will sing with him, as the script calls. Do not entertain your childish dreams any longer, Christine. Cold and unfeeling though it is, reality is the path which beckons you now, not broken illusions and shattered dreams."
"How can you stand there and deny this?" I was incredulous even as I was furious with his blatant indifference toward me after I had saved his life only a few hours ago. Curse the man's pride and stubbornness! "This is your opera, your dream and life's work! You deserve to be on that stage and be recognized for your brilliance, and you deserve to be singing your role as it was meant to be sung!"
His silence only grated my nerves all the more, and unable to think of anything dignified or polite to further say, I forced his face down to meet my gaze. "Or are you so disgusted with me that you no longer even taste the flame of desire that declares you are mine and I am yours?"
His hands abruptly caught me around the shoulders and yanked me forward. I started a bit at the sudden spark of his temper, but I held my defiance and meet his smoldering glare without hesitation. I was not about to cower away from him and let him think for a moment that he would play a victim of my rejection again.
"If only I didn't!" he snarled, fingers digging mercilessly down into my skin even through the silk of my dress sleeves, "If only I couldn't taste it anymore! If only my heart would know nothing but disgust and loathing for you so that I might break you and rid myself of your sadism once and for all! If only I could so easily ignore the way it feels to sing with you, Christine...if only you would stop tormenting me with these fleeting tastes of hope and let me wallow in my pitiful existence without interference!"
"If only I could return such sentiments!" I didn't bother deny my temper this time, not when it might actually startle him enough to let me say what needed to be said. "If only I could so easily be rid of you the way you are rid of me!"
"Do I sound like I am rid of you, Christine!" he was practically shouting now, and it would be a wonder if no one came bursting through the door to investigate. "Do I sound like I have rid my heart of this cursed infection you buried inside me and left to fester until it has consumed every last piece of me? By God, if only it were so easy!"
"Of course," I said coldly, "Because it's far safer to hate me than to love me, isn't it?"
"I once thought it impossible to hate you, Christine..." his voice lowered to a whisper, eyes boring down into mine and briefly distracting me with their intensity, "I truly believed it impossible to consider ever despising you, but you have only left me with the most intense and poisonous hate in place of love. I hope you are pleased with yourself, now that you have seen just what you've done to me. I was fully prepared to slit your Vicomte's throat today."
"Was that before or after I put myself between your heart and his blade?" I was viciously satisfied to see how my words surprised him, but he was quickly back on the offense in the moment it took me to blink.
"Kindly don't remind me of your little self-righteous stance." he replied coldly, releasing me and sliding the mirror open in a silent but unmistakable command for me to leave his presence. "I told you before, Christine...spare me your pity. I have no need nor desire for it."
My body finally free to move, I followed impulse without concern for the consequences and closed the distance between us. My hands cradled his cheeks as the fingers of my left hand fitted around the edges of his mask and ripped it away. And even as I felt his body tense in shame and rage, I gave it no passing thought and instead brought my lips to his.
They were misshapen, distorted into a bloated and swollen arch that felt strange against my softer and smoother lips, but as I continued to kiss him and learned their texture it seemed less and less of a blatant disfigurement and more natural. His scarred cheek was rough and foreign to my fingertips at first touch, but even still I relished the touch—I had never been able to touch him before this moment, only look upon those ravaged features and be denied the feel of them on my skin. This kiss offered me the moment I most desired, a suspended sense of bliss where nothing else had to exist...only us.
I longed to open my eyes and see him, but it was only in this darkness that he was confident enough to succumb to his suppressed desires and fully return my kiss. I would have to allow touch to be my source of sight for now, and I was delighted to feel him lean into the touch instead of spurning it. His hands slid around to grasp me close by the small of my back, and I released a moan at the feel of hard planes of flesh pressed to my curves. Before he could interpret it as a cry of disgust, I resumed the kiss and in that gesture plead for more...even when I knew this moment couldn't last.
It was Erik who broke the kiss first, and while my lungs rejoiced in the feel of air once again filling their caverns I was left with lips tingling and needing to feel his again. But the moment was lost as I heard Madame Giry knocking upon my door. Still I was not content to let the moment die so quickly, and I brought my lips to his once more before I had to step into the light and resume my facade once more.
"Even if you dare not believe it," I whispered against his lips, knowing they still burned as mine did. "You know it was not pity."