A/N: Disjointed? Perhaps. But it was written out of a need to purge some of my own ghosts, as one does. Please leave a review!
"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."
-1 Corinthians 13:12
oOoOoOo
The fine silk curtains billowed in the warm midnight breeze, drawn back from the many open windows. Their white sheen caught the partial moonlight as it filled the darkness. The French doors of the balcony were flung wide, and the smell of clean salt air from the west Mediterranean ghosted through the spacious bedroom. The distant sound of the sea lapping at the shore pulsed softly with each new wave, the rolling sound of faraway thunder not quite overwhelming it.
Raoul was still beneath the light satin sheets, his chest rising and falling slowly, but Christine, wrapped in her dressing down, was seated cross-legged in front of the mirror which was bolted against one of the walls of the château. She watched the curtains drift lazily in its reflection, her mind far away. Having lost yet another battle against insomnia, she had risen from her bed and, like so many sleepless nights before, taken a seat in front of the gleaming glass.
It had been nearly two years since the Opéra, but the sight of a mirror still sent a dull ache through her chest. In these moments, though, alone with the night and her thoughts, she was able to find calm.
It would be a lie to say that she didn't miss him. Not the angel who lifted her voice, nor the phantom who haunted her dreams, but the man who was both her mentor and companion through it all. He had been her closest friend for years before she even learned his name, and despite the violent end to that closeness, she still yearned for his soft words of reassurance and kindness, and to know that someone understood her.
Erik had been with her her throughout her failures and her triumphs alike, from the horrible years after her father had passed, and onward, never judging her for the lingering sadness she still felt, and instead offering her unwavering consideration. He had ensured that she never found herself feeling alone or isolated by the introspectiveness and uncertainty of a grieving heart, and though she never had the chance to tell him, she would forever be grateful to him for this, in spite of all else.
Her eyes flicked to where her husband slept peacefully, and she felt a small stab of hurt.
Though he was gentle and loving, she could not help but feel that Raoul secretly wished she would move on from her past. He was growing impatient with her, and though he took care to conceal it, she had learned to interpret the long silences that hung between them. It was always difficult to fully believe him when he said "I love you."
She returned her gaze to her hands, where his engagement ring rested, extravagant, silver, and cold. The gold wedding ring next to it was plain, as per her request. It reminded her less of Raoul and more of another ring that had once graced her finger.
There had been three people over the course of her life who had told her that they loved her. Her father had said it often, and she wished she could hear him say it again, but the years had faded her recollections of him and she could no longer recall the sound. Raoul kissed her forehead and said it each evening, yet the sentiment was jarring. When Erik had said it, though, he had done so only once, but that moment was seared deep within her memory.
He gazed up at her from where he knelt, clasping her hand like a sinner reaching for salvation, and his brimming grey eyes bespoke a lifetime of wanting and dreaming of being wanted. His warped face displayed a mixture of utter adoration and deep fear. The golden voice cracked as he forced the words out through the torrent of emotions that left him trembling, and he whispered, "Christine...I...I l-love you."
A muffled thunderclap sounded in the distance, the storm moving closer. Raoul rolled over with a light snore, pulling her out of her reverie, and her throat tightened with a mixture of sadness and guilt, though guilt for whom, she could not tell.
These creeping moments of doubt had become frequent since she had left Paris. Though it was a city beset with painful memories, it was also a city full of familiarity, and once the life she had known ceased to greet her each day, the confidence she felt in choosing Raoul began to slip away. The reality of the manipulation and madness which colored her recollection of Erik was fading, and the logical terror and emotional turmoil she associated with him was becoming muted, giving way to confusion and an unexpected longing.
Had she truly made the right choice? Or was her uncertainty merely a product of being unhappily married? Erik represented an alternative, a different path she might have taken, but one which was unhealthy to consider.
For all of his kind and gentle qualities as her friend from long ago, he was as equally monstrous and twisted, deep inside. He had wanted her to fix him, to help mend the loveless years of emotional scarring he had endured throughout his years on Earth, to wrench the darkness of his soul into the light of a normal life. The truth was, however, that he was damned. He alone had the power to heal himself, and possessing her soul would not wipe the blood from his own, but he had lost himself in isolation, and was never able to see that in caging her with him in the dark, all she wanted was to fly away. By tightening his hold upon her, he crushed her wings. In begging her to sing only for him, he nearly strangled her.
Subconsciously, she massaged the wrist of her right hand. Though the bruises left by his fingers had long since disappeared, she still remembered the feeling his inhumanly powerful grip had left behind as he dragged her from the stage during Don Juan Triumphant.
She would never fully understand the odd twists of fate that had brought them together, nor the corrosive, destructive choices he made which wrenched them apart. The only thing she could do now was attempt to leave it all behind, to continue living her life. And yet...
He had taken even this from her, as his imprint upon her mind and heart burned as clearly now as ever. If she allowed herself to think of it, she could still recall the sensation of the kiss they shared, long ago. Even now, in spite of the rational and justified loathing she knew she should feel, she was still drawn to him.
Every waking moment was in some form tainted by him, and the doubts she now felt were a product of this. She hated him, yet she missed him. She feared him, yet was entranced by the memory of him. She knew him for what he was and for what he did, yet still found herself wishing that their story had not ended the way it had.
All of these thoughts now mulled through her mind as she sat, watching the shadows flutter across the walls, unconsciously breathing in time with the distant waves as they were slowly overtaken by the sound of rain.
The wind suddenly picked up strength as the stormclouds swallowed the moon, forming new shadows across the room. Her eyes met her own reflection in the mirror, and her heart stopped.
She looked gaunt, the darkness accentuating the hollow of her cheeks and her temples, making her eyes appear horribly sunken, though they glimmered from their sockets. The shadows erased her nose and gave a queer malformed hardness to her mottled lips and cheeks.
Erik stared back at her.
Her hand rose to cover the thin mouth which gaped back at her in horror. The awful face leered at her from beneath her own loose, curly hair. A flash of lighting returned her visage to the mirror for an instant, and her features were mixed with that of the death's head. A terrified gasp escaped her, and a percussive thunderclap shook the château.
"Christine?"
Her head snapped to the left and she met the bloodshot eyes of Raoul, staring at her in confusion and concern from where he sat in bed. Not waiting for a response, he rose from the bed and came to her side, gently putting an arm around her as she ran her fingers through her hair, trying not to let her hands shake as the thunder continued to crash overhead.
"I doubt the storm will last long, you know," he said gently, misunderstanding the cause of her distress but not questioning why she was seated on the floor, "Would you like to come back to bed?"
She took a shuddering breath and shook her head 'no', taking care to avoid looking at the mirror. She focused her eyes on the floor, and shifted away from him. He gave her an odd look, but again, did not ask. Instead, he stood up silently, pulled the white sheet from the bed, and wrapped it around her thin soldiers. She looked at her hands, the lighting turning them pallid.
"I am going to have a cup of tea, and watch the storm pass. The study has a rather nice view of the coastline." Raoul wrapped himself in his dressing gown and opened the door into the dark corridor. He paused before stepping out. "You are welcome to join me," he said quietly, knowing full well she wouldn't. She offered no response, and he sighed and closed the door behind him with a click.
A strangled sob escaped her before she could choke it back, and she stood up, tore the sheet from her shoulders, ran to the mirror, and covered it from view. She then went around the bedroom closing the windows one by one and drawing the curtains tight. When the room was finally, blessedly dark, she curled into a ball on her side of the bed, praying that sleep would come quickly, and trying to force away all of the emotions that threatened to swallow her. The hot, angry tears of a conflicted soul began to leak onto her pillow.
Erik had managed to find peace in the night, but the only thing that she ever seemed to find was the ghost of a time long-since dead, and the regret that stained its burial shroud.
The stormclouds overhead and within her mind gained strength, and Christine dreamed of another mirror, the black world that lay behind its deceptive reflection, and the man who pulled her through the glass into his own darkness.