Nadir. True Nadir. Loyal, faithful Nadir. Here now, of course he is. He always is, in fact he refuses to leave. Creeping in as a phantasm, always appearing just when he longs to be left alone.
When he had that last attack it was Nadir who caught him as he fell, Nadir who loosened his cravat so he could breathe. Only natural, really, for it to be him. Nadir nursed him through the Persian poison, of course he should be here at his death. There is a certain justice in it.
"I'm certain your mutterings would make sense if you'd permit me to take off the mask," Nadir's voice is gentle even as it strives for some of its old snappishness.
The room swims back into view, and Erik can't remember when he lost it, lost the view of Christine's room and of Nadir seated gravely next to him, Ayesha resting on the bed sheets. He stretches his right hand – his good hand now, the left rendered useless after the last attack – and lays it on her back, her slim body warm beneath his touch. At least he still has her if no one else. "It would be nonsensical to take the mask off," he murmurs, or tries to. Frankly he cannot be sure how much of it comes out. Nadir nods sadly, so he must make some sense.
The heaviness in his chest stabs suddenly, a sharp, lancing dagger in his heart and as he fights to breathe around it, Nadir slips an arm under his back and raises him carefully, cradling him as he once held Reza and dammit why won't the stabbing ease? Morphine. He must have morphine to take it away.
"It's too soon, Erik. Too soon for more."
Too soon? What does that matter now? He's dying anyway. What does it matter if the morphine hastens the inevitable? Is that to be a relief granted to Reza but not to him? A mercy for other people, like so much else? If he could move his arm he'd pluck the solution from the pocket where Nadir has it and administer it himself!
"Easy, Erik. It won't be long now." Nadir's voice is oddly strangled. Why is it strangled? He can't move his left hand for to strangle him, and his right has tightened so hard on the sheets that he's liable to shred the fabric.
A sharp bolt lances deeper than before, piercing right through to the bone and suddenly he can take a breath. He sucks the sir in desperately, chest heaving, heart racing so fast that surely it will pound its way through its cage of ribs and perhaps that would be a mercy, to be rid of the damned disloyal thing that makes him suffer for its infidelity.
The stars dance in Nadir's eyes, glittering in the darkness as surely as if they hung in the sky. How he longed to touch them when he was a boy and used to jump out of his bedroom window. They were so far away, so distant that they would not care about masks and little boys with skulls for faces. The merciful, all-forgiving stars that see all and fear nothing, and nobody fears them.
One star falls hot and golden from Nadir's eyes and settles on his shirt, nestling close. A star because he says it's a star. (A cat basket because he tells her it's a cat basket, her eyes glazed and staring, a palace to a flea.)
You're very ill, aren't you? What shall I do if you die?
Her voice soft, a whisper on the air as his eyes slip closed, her fingertips light against his cheek. And if she will make him some tea, perhaps then he will know what to say.
I've got one or two excellent knives that would be admirably suited to the purpose.
The white dress stained deep crimson, one such knife buried to the hilt in her stomach. He is too late. Ever too late. Destined to lose everyone, to watch them slip away, gliding through his fingers like so much mist. The ghosts in his head, his own private opera, revolving and returning, slipping and slipping and he is on his knees trying to put it all together, trying to put her back to together. Her blood runs through the lines of his hands, lingering in the creases of his palms, the cuffs of his shirt stained pink. And he can't stop the bleeding, her blank eyes staring through him, can't put her back together. Why can he not put her back together? The truly grand romantic gesture in the bridal suite.
Shall I tell you how he nursed me through Persian poison and risked his life to save me from the shah's malice?
Nadir never left, always there though by rights he should have been gone long ago. He tried to push him away and yet he always came back, that soft-voiced lilting accent. Yes, Nadir is a friend for all of his faults, willing to give him a comfortable place to die even as he vomits blood over white marble, terrible flames ripping through his stomach, Nadir's hand rubbing circles on his back.
My music man is broken
The knife, its blade shining silver in the candlelight, rips through the hanging black drapes. They hang still in the air for a glittering moment, before tumbling, weaving slowly to the ground.
Yes, master.
The master mason nods, and the sigh which he releases drains every last ounce of strength from his weary bones. The palace will be completed, a desert monument to him as his legs buckle and he sways, floating, falling to the ground.
All masons come to this fate in time, Erik – there's no cure been found for a lung full of grit and dust.
Inevitable, father. Yes. Bound to happen. The lungs clog with the harshness of such labour. Nothing to be done for it. Chest full of mortar, constricted and tight. His father, that wonderful old Italian man, swims before him, and he could reach out to touch that cracked face if his hand would lift, but that's filled with mortar too. (How can a hand fill with mortar? Such things bear no thinking about.)
Kisses. One now and one to save.
He deserves no kisses, though how he longs for them. Kisses to fill the hollowness inside. Kisses. Wonderful kisses. The one thing he was never able to steal, however proficient he became at pocket watches and purses. He hasn't been good, and it isn't his birthday, but oh how he's tried. Can't she see that? She never gave him a birthday before, and then she did but the only gift amounted to his slashed wrists. Kisses, though. Kisses would make it right, would take the burning away. And instead she sits on the edge of his bed and sings to him in her soft voice, not daring to touch the bandages tight around his wrists. If she would only hold him close…
"I fear he may not know you, mademoiselle. He had a lengthy conversation with me earlier thinking I was his father."
Don Juan Triumphant shredded between his fingers. What good does it now? He raped her with his music, drove her to attempt suicide. Such things do not deserve a public hearing.
"Erik, angel, darling, do you hear me?" Fingers, soft against the back of his head.
Dreaming. Surely he must be dreaming. It is the morphine. It is death welcoming him in its embrace at last. She cannot be here. She must not be here. De Chagny would not permit it though he promised he would. Wise boy. Heaven knows if things had been different he would not have permitted it either. Better to be safe where such matters are concerned.
"I suspect not, mademoiselle. He has not been conscious of his surroundings in many hours."
The pain throbs deep in his chest, a flashing flicker of the heavy agony of before. Some noise, some whimper low in his throat must pass his lips, because that sweet dreamt up voice is whispering to him again so soft, so gentle.
The air is cold on his face, the mask disappeared by a clever conjurer's trick, her breath warm, lips on his forehead. His dreams are improving. If he only moves, just so, then he could almost hold her with his good arm…
When did phantoms come to feel so solid?
With a tremendous effort, he forces his eyes open. His mother's face (when did his mother have two faces?) swims before his eyes, tears trickling down her cheeks, to fall and mingle with his own. She smiles a thin, watery smile and bows her head, her lovely lips pressed to his mangled ones, and it's not his mother. His mother would never kiss him, not even at his death, and certainly not like this.
Christine. His Christine. His beautiful, innocent, angelic Christine. How comes she to be here now?
"Chri-" His voice is cracked, hoarse, and she shushes him gently, one light finger pressed to his lips.
"Sshh, darling. Don't speak, just rest." She looks behind her, and he is too tired to see who stands there, marvelling simply at the wonder that is Christine being back here now. He has always known that there is a vengeful God, but perhaps He has His moments of mercy too. "Good monsieur." Her voice is soft, so soft that he almost doesn't catch her words. "You've been a friend to him, a friend to us both. Will you," she swallows, the tears dripping precious drops of liquid silver down her cheeks, "will you stand as our witness before God?"
He misses the answering words, misses the whole exchange that follows, snatches whisking to his ears and fading away, drifting on the breeze, a vague sense of his lips forming a whispered I do. And all he can do is raise his right hand and press it to her cheek, the tears slipping over his fingers. She is here, she is perfect, even in her tearful paleness.
If he questions her she'll dissipate, fade back into the mist from whence she came, and he can't allow that. She's here, she's slipping the thin gold band onto his finger. Dream or no, what does it matter how she came to be here? She's here and that's, that's all he needs to know.
His eyes slip closed against his best efforts with the exhaustion of taking in her radiance in his weakened condition. Her lips are back on his forehead, featherlight kisses pressed together, side by side. I love you, a murmur repeated at each press of those lips. I love you, Erik. I love you. I love you.
I love you. His lips form the words, as habitual as if he's said them every day of his life, a whisper to the air. A murmured prayer, a penitent man here at the last. An I do binding them here in this deathbed. Her mouth is at the edge of his now, tongue soft, catching his tears, trailing over his lips and leaving them tingling, slipping so slowly between them. I love you. I love you.
I love you, too, breathed back. Sighed into his mouth. Her hands light on his chest, abolishing the tightness, that terrible tightness he's carried around for so long. It is the first time he's been able to breathe easy in he forgets how long. She loves him, she really does, and she's here. He need not be alone.
Her fingers insinuate themselves between the buttons of his trousers. He is oddly conscious of them, and of the heat, the unfamiliar strange heat flushing his skin, driving the cold away. A living bride. A true living bride. And a dying groom. What a twist. So this is her opera. A master stroke of genius. He would never have thought of it himself, a possibility he did not foresee. He prefers it this way, he thinks. More justice to it. Better that she live, rather than him.
His breaths stutter faster, her lips on his throat, mouthing smooth kisses, whispered sentiments, the air cold on his bare skin. Her hands on his hips, gripping them tight. There are only hands and lips. And he can't move his left hand for to better feel the softness of her skin, so the clumsy right one will have to suffice, fingers clutching her hip, bruising the porcelain no doubt.
But she is his living bride, and he hasn't been able to allow himself to entertain such a thought in oh so long.
Touch-starved his whole life, having her now is overwhelming. His heart aches and it has nothing to do with his illness. Eyes stinging he forces them open, a burning desperation to drink her in, to see her now, his hips thrusting him deep into her, and how did they get to this? He has no recollection, mind like treacle. She loved treacle when she was a child, she told him so once as he lay on the black couch, a cup of her weak tea gripped in the now-deadened left hand.
A shudder trembles through his body, and he sinks deeper into the bed, panting for breath though the pain is gone for now, wonder of her presence here. Still she presses kisses to his face, each one a whispered apology, a confession. I'm sorry for Raoul. I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry for banging my head against the wall. I'm sorry for singing when I had a cold. I'm sorry for not returning sooner. I'm sorry for planning to leave without telling you.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Each sorry a litany, an atonement for her sins, though she has no sins to atone for. She is young, she is innocent, he drove her to so much. Her sins are his sins really. He made her fear him and the rest was inevitable.
She'll stay until the end, now. He knows that, knows she won't leave him but it is dreadfully selfish of him to keep her here. She shouldn't have to see his death, shouldn't have to carry that with her through the remainder of her life. He has done so much to her, but he can at least spare her his death throes.
He looks down at their joined hands, her small fingers interlaced with his long bony ones. Raising her hand to his lips he kisses it gently. "Go, Christine," he murmurs. "Go."
"No, Erik." Even thick with tears her voice is firm, strangely so for her. "I told you that I'm staying, and I'm going to stay. Right to the very end, all right?" She kisses him again. So many kisses. Is she trying to make up for lost time? To live a whole life with what they have left?
"I don't," he swallows, and now the pain is throbbing insistently, sharpening then dulling again, sharp bolts of lightning that obliterate every thought, "don't want you to see it." His words are faint, almost lost and she disentangles their fingers, stroking away the tears that are still leaking from his eyes.
"I don't care, Erik. I promise I'm not going to leave you." She folds herself around him, tenderly cradling his head to her chest, kissing his forehead. Her heart beat is a steady lull, soft and reliable even as his own heart swells so his throat aches. The pain sharpens, so sharp that one of his own admirable knives could have been plunged into his chest, piercing deep. The scope of his vision narrows down to her eyes, those lovely deep eyes that he could get lost in, float away and never return. How lovely it would be to float away, to escape the agonising stabbing of his heart with each feeble beat. Every muscle of his body contorts against it, fighting desperately to escape, but he can't escape something that's rooted in his chest, in his very being. And he can't breathe. He can't breathe! Death's flames tearing through his lungs, leaving nothing in their wake, razing all that they meet the way he sometimes wondered, in his darker moments, about razing Paris to the ground. Pinpricks of light. That's all that's left for him.
The black silence that washes over his mind is merciful.
The music flowing forth from his fingers as they dance across the keys of his organ is soft, gentle. A lullaby, a requiem, an appeasement to keep the dead asleep. So unlike his normal compositions and yet he has no inclination to return to the soul-shredding horror of his Don Juan. There is something easy in simply letting himself be for once, even if the very act of that being would have him discredited. A light hand falls to his shoulder, a caress trailing down his arm, and he smiles. She always enjoys his softer music.
He finishes the sonata – is it a sonata? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is a tribute to her – with a flourish and she settles onto the stool next to his. He takes her hand – so small! so delicate! – in his and kisses her palm, entwining their fingers as she lays her head on his shoulder.
How are you feeling? She doesn't speak the words, but he hears them anyway, echoed in his brain, the gentle note of concern in her voice going straight to his heart.
Better, now. His fingers tap out a few more keys of their own volition, the thin golden band on the third finger of his left hand glinting in the candlelight. A lump catches in his throat. It's been so long and he is still so unused to seeing it there, to feeling it beneath his thumb when he toys with it idly as he's composing.
You look it. She inclines her head and kisses his cheek. Come. Charles wishes to show you his designs.
No wonder the boy has been so quiet all day if he's been designing. He chuckles, and allows her to guide him to Charles' room. A ream of paper must be spread across the floor, and in the middle of it, head bowed, hand sketching industriously, sits little Charles himself.
It's an opera house, papa, he says softly, not looking up. Look, over there by the mirror are my plans for the fifth basement, just above the lake. He gestures with the pencil in his hand, a sharp point before returning to his drawing. There are secret passages, a hollow marble column in box five and hundreds of trapdoors. Do you like it, papa?
Charles, it's wonderful.
And at last the boy looks up, Christine's eyes shining out at him from a five year old face split with a grin. A perfect face with a full nose and untarnished lips. Why was he worried it might be anything otherwise?
Maman said you'd think so.
Your maman can be very clever, sometimes. He crosses the room to the mirror and picks up the plans for the fifth basement to better inspect them. Before he can look any closer, his eye catches the reflection in the mirror. At once it is and is not his face – the bone structure is the same, the black hair greying at the edges lends him an oddly distinguished air, the yellow eyes that he is so grateful did not pass to Charles glitter as they ever did.
For a moment, he can't place what is so disconcerting about the reflection, and then it strikes him. That horrible dream last night, that made him wake sweating to Christine gently shushing him. The horrendously deformed face that looked back at him from the mirror when he took his mask off. Those full lips were mangled, those eyes set so deep in their sockets it was if they were two candles burning out from empty eye sockets and the nose –
Of course he knew it was a dream at the time. It would be ridiculous to entertain any thought otherwise. He smiles now and the reflection smiles back, the same smile that Christine insists made her heart skip a beat the first time he turned it on her. How ludicrous a thought, that a smile can put a heart into temporary fibrillation. Wherever did she get such a notion?
What are you crying over, papa?
Your marvellous opera house, son. I could not design better myself.
The darkness wraps him like a shroud, so comforting and safe. Nothing can harm him now, not even his troublesome heart. Everything is numb, delightfully so, as if he treated himself to a hypodermic full of morphine, that glorious drug. Oh morphine, dear morphine.
"Anywhere you go, let me go too," the words are soft, murmured in his ear so that they slip into his thoughts, embedding themselves inside of his heart. "Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Say the word and I will follow you." Her voice cracks, lips pressed to his cheek. "Oh, Erik."
He gropes through the darkness, seeking, searching until his fingers find her, brushing the soft fabric of a dress with all of the helplessness of a child. His fingers are captured and kissed, one by one, her lips soft.
She is here, before him, her face soft in the candlelight, tears glistening. She is so beautiful, a masterful work of art. Breaking free from her grasp, his fingers trace the curve of her cheek, trailing down to her throat, that delicate throat, her pulse beating against his touch. How he hates having to leave her, having to make her a widow at such a tender age (would she be a widow? the ring glints on his finger, so surely she would be) and yet there is no way to stop it. There is nothing that he or she or anyone else can do to turn the tide of what is happening. Each breath draws him ever closer to the last. It can only be hours left now.
"Christine," his voice is faint, an echo, and he's not certain if she can hear him though he hopes she can, "I love you." Ayesha jumps onto the bed, nudging her small face against his own, and his lips twitch. "And I love you, my darling. Christine will take care of you now." With his good right hand he slides the ring off his finger, gesturing for Christine to give him her hand. He slips the ring onto her finger and kisses it. "I believe it is customary...for the groom to give it...to his bride."
I believe, on such a day, it would be quite permissible to kiss the bride…would it not? He said that once, did he not? He did, those words which now twist slowly in his mind were his own, a last act of desperation, knowing it would be impossible. Kiss the bride. And he kissed her, or more accurately she kissed him, not that semantics much matter. Permissible to kiss the bride. She wasn't to be his bride, he was merely giving her away. He couldn't do it in a church. Weddings make him cry.
(Of course his eyes are burning when she's pledged herself to him. There was no need for her to do that. Such an act, her lips so light on his face.)
She purses her lips tight, a tear trickling down over them, seeping into her mouth. If he had the strength to kiss them away he would. Her sweet face should not have to know such tears. How he wishes things could be different. It seems he's spent most of his life quietly wishing for impossible things in the back of his mind, even as he fought not to do so. She should never have come back to him, it was wrong. It would be better for her and the Vicomte if she didn't have this added burden of grief, and things will be difficult enough with the Vicomte after her returning to him.
"Raoul doesn't matter now," she whispers, as if she can read his thoughts. He must be talking to himself again without realising it. How intolerable this dying is, when he can't maintain his once-perfect control! "Don't think of him now, Erik. Please."
How easy that would be, to just forget the Vicomte! But he can't forget him, how could he? He entrusted the Vicomte to look after her after his time, and that's more important now than ever! She'll need someone to make sure she's all right, to ensure she doesn't simply go into herself and wither away. What a tragedy that would be!
"He n-"
"He'll look after me, Erik. He will. He promised you he will, didn't he? Don't worry about me, please don't wear yourself out with it. It doesn't matter."
It does matter. It matters so much that he isn't surprised that she doesn't grasp it. She's not the one dying, she can't see how important it is to him that she's looked after. If he had the strength he'd extract a small fortune off those foolish managers for to keep her if the Vicomte cuts her off. It is duty, and yet he can't even raise his hand to wipe away her tears.
He can't argue with her, not now. He is too tired and time is too short. If he tries to argue she'll fret that he's killing himself faster. No, now it's better to acquiesce to her wishes.
He presses himself closer to her chest and sighs. How wonderful it is to die here, in the comfort of her arms, listening to the steadiness of her beating heart. She'll keep him close, and he can sleep in peace. How can such a mercy be granted to one such as him? The crimes he's committed…She truly is one of His angels.
The exhaustion is bone-deep, a heaviness pulling him down as if his clothes were lead-lined. A lead-lined coffin…No better place for him now. She can put him into his canopied coffin in the other room. He once said that she might have to, though he turned it into a joke at the time, asking for tea to take her mind off his illness. The weariness of the world embedded in every fibre of his being…And still she is here, still murmuring soft words to him, still smiling through her tears and holding him close. He's forgotten why she's here, can't quite grasp the answer though it's hiding somewhere in the back of his memory. Her hands on his and a gold ring. He's unravelling even as he lies here in her arms, mind loosening, threads spinning free.
Is she really here? Or is he dreaming? He can't quite re-call.
"I'm so tired, Christine." His lips are stiff, unwilling to form the words, and he has the unpleasant suspicion that he slurs them more than speaks them. Indeed, she is flickering before his eyes. How undignified that he's losing control of his senses in front of her.
He's used to the cold, well-adjusted to it. But it's creeping into his blood, chilling him from the inside out. Christine is warm, but not warm enough to drive the ice from his veins. He shivers against her, the darkness wrapping around him, and she holds him tighter. "Sleep all you need," her voice cracks. "Sleep. Oh, God. Erik." She kisses him again, one last meeting of their lips that lingers even as he feels himself slipping further away, her voice fainter, her touch lighter. "I love you."
And he's floating on the waves on a rolling black river, lying on his back, the stars hanging above him, jewels on a tapestry, and an angel of music singing softly in his ear.