The Mask and Mirror

I know I should go
But I follow you like a man possessed
There's a traitor here beneath my breast
And it hurts me more than you've ever guessed
If my heart could beat, it would break my chest

(Spike, Rest In Peace, Buffy the Vampire Slayer 'Once More With Feeling')

Chapter 4

The melancholy, evocative notes of the organ died away, echoing faintly in the cavernous interior of the softly lit dwelling. A leather-gloved hand ran absently over the frosted ebon and ice keys, the ornate mahogany of the exquisitely carved instrument, the gold pipes that reverberated with the lingering strains of solemn sound.

Erik stood up and sighed. He could not concentrate on his music, knowing that across from him lay Christine, lost in the depths of a soporific sleep. Darkly gloved hands clenched into leathern fists. The desire to pull back the gossamer red curtains that shrouded the swan bed he had gently placed her in and watch her in slumber, was overwhelming. It was probably the closest he could ever come to her now. Gone was that precious bond of trust he had so carefully and painstakingly built up over many months, shattered in a single moment. In that instant, his soul, hope, and very existence had withered to ashes and dust. The ardent devotion she had once felt for him had turned to bitter tears and loathing. But still he could not let go. He would not.

Hate me, curse me, despise me - only let me be near you!

No, he would see to it that they could recover what had been lost. It was his only chance of salvation.

Diamond shards of splintered glass cracked underfoot, splitting into many faceted crystals as he walked with long practised quietness. There was still much evidence of the damage done by himself and the enraged crowd that had sought him out, to hunt him down, destroy him. Of course he had escaped. Had he not done so many times before? He knew well how to make himself disappear, even without the assistance of magic. Europe was a large enough place to hide in, whether it was the imperial magnificence of St Petersburg or the sun-scorched narrow streets of Granada. And so he had wandered madly - without course, without direction. The rocky paths of the Caucasus, the dusty Spanish plains, the dark forests of Austria-Hungary. It was all one and the same. Perhaps he should have walked further. He could have walked to Jerusalem and let the sands cover him. A grimace of bitter irony tugged at his mouth. He would have made a poor pilgrim. No, he was Melmoth, he was Manfred, cursed to wander this earth pursued by the power and passions of past evils that would never leave him. Even now, they ravaged his being and whispered cruel remembrances that tortured him in the long hours of night. Only night lay in his soul now, and its completeness was like the shroud of death.

And so he had come back here. Led by the impulses of his treacherous heart, abandoning reason, caution and all common sense. Unable to abate the intolerable flame she awoke within him. He was bound by this endless longing, this doomed obsession. He would not waste away in some foreign land. Not while she existed and he had the chance to be close to her. He ached to be beside her. To see those eyes - dark, haunted, heartbreaking - look upon him once more, to pierce him with a thousand emotions.

He had to see her. God knows, he had tried to keep away, but his will was utterly enslaved. He had travelled the surface of the earth and it was insufficient to drive her from his mind. He had sighed and wept and screamed himself hoarse. He had cried enough tears to drown the world. Prayed for fate to render him dumb and frozen, to seal his emotions in a tomb that might never be opened. He had laughed at the storms and lightning strikes that tore apart the hot Spanish skies, had borne the devastating colds of Russia with its snows that could bury a man. It could not touch him - for one cannot die who is already dead -

He had known fury and despair, unbearable solitude and darkness deeper than death. Devoid of her, he was barren and cold. You are all that ties me to this miserable world. This chain that agonises and sustains me. He only wished to be cured or die - no, he was lying to himself. He wished for her to love him as he did her - completely, passionately, desperately. I do not want your pity - only your complete and utter devotion.

Was he in her thoughts at all? Did she ever think of him? Even to return to those early days of their first encounters was no longer enough. He did not wish to be despised, but neither could he find any solace in being thought of merely as some distant, holy being, adored and revered from afar. He ached to have Christine love him for himself, not merely view him as an angel of light or a demon of darkness. Yet how could she see him otherwise? His spirit soared as high as Ariel and his body clawed at the earth like Caliban. The evidence of that was before him, in this illumined Hades he walked through, the relics of Apollonian beauty lying in wanton destruction around him. He walked between shards and mirrors.

His world had been demolished, reduced to a smouldering ruin and his heart burned with the injustice of it. This place had been a hell, but one of his own construction, ringing with the burning splendour of his music. In this realm, he had once been creator and god, wielding authority and unimaginable power. After all, better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n. But even this had been taken from him. Will they not even give me a place of my own to live out my last days in misery? Hatred flared within him, the consuming longing for vengeance. War. Destruction. Retribution. The memory of the fire burned behind his lowered lids; his forbidding features darkened beneath the mask. I am an angel, and I will have justice.

He had done his best to clear much of the wreckage but progress had been slow, and he was still unsure how long he planned to remain in Paris. All the mirrors had been smashed from their frames, many of the draperies had been torn down and the beautifully carved models he had worked on so tirelessly were destroyed. A few of his sketches and portraits remained but were ruined by the scorched traces of footprints, fire and water. Thankfully, his organ – his pride and joy – had been left untouched. And once the candles had been lit, their lambent glow casting a soft dusky illumination on the cavernous walls, his labyrinthine home began to resume something of its old familiarity. Surrounded by the flickering shadows and the sonorous echo of that spellbinding music he loved so much, with Christine's soothing presence; it was almost enough to make him believe that things could be as they once were.

Erik felt a piercing stab of remorse at the thought that he might have harmed her last night. He would never willingly lay a hand on her, never. No matter how passionately or desperately he might burn for her, she was safer lying in his domain asleep than anywhere else in Paris. If the whole world was on fire, he would watch it burn if by doing so, he could ensure her safety. But to think how roughly he must have handled her last night! Could she forgive him for this, another act of evil and cruelty against her whom he would die to protect? Could he forgive himself? The conflict between angel and demon was a source of constant torment within him. And all because of this face he was cursed to carry with him always, that forced him to remain a stranger to the endless swarms of people he walked among. Well, so be it. He had not needed them. Not with the divine and elemental strains music to warm his dying heart. Once, he had thought that was enough. But that was before he had seen her.

He had been in Paris only three days, but in those hours had been haunted by her everywhere. The turn of a dark head, a gloved elbow, the trail of a white gown along the pavement. She was in a voice, the curve of a shoulder, a manner of walking. Every stranger that passed by piercing his heart with cruel reminders of her. He was surrounded by ghosts and shadows of her that leapt out amid the faceless crowds of people.

Until -

He had seen her, at last.

At the Rue de Bac, stepping out of a carriage laughingly, she had turned her head - her joyful expression seemed to falter for an instant - but on seeing nothing amiss, she smiled once again and addressed a few breathless comments to the Vicomte who merrily caught her hand, pressing an affectionate kiss to those slender white fingers. The easy affection of the gesture caused the blood to boil in Erik's veins. In that moment, he thought he would die of hatred. Erik's hooded eyes darkened with predatory intent. If we meet again, it will be a reckoning for him. He will feel the full fury of the dark power he has awoken. I will tear out his young, foolish heart before resigning her to his caresses.

He knew that it was only by removing the pervasive influence of the Vicomte and allowing Christine to see him alone - without smoke, without mirrors, without lies - that he could hope to persuade her to care for him. These past months had changed him. She must surely see that. His act of self-sacrifice had proven that he could be a good man. It had been a constant struggle through internal madness and torment. But he had emerged with the belief that he could change - if she would let him. He would allow himself to be humbled, restrained, gentle even. Erik was aware of this growing weakness and it filled him with terror, but if Christine were prepared to see the good in him, he would cultivate it, God, even welcome it. He would do anything she asked of him.

Do you hear me, Christine? I repent - I recant - I will do whatever is required to gain your forgiveness, even if I am frail and dying and can barely hear the words pass from your lips -

It was only through her that he could hope to achieve redemption for the darkness and degradation that had been his life. Thievery, torture, abduction, murder, by God… lurking down here all those years, deprived of all warmth and light and companionship, was it any wonder he had become something savage and wild, choking on the sense of his own sin and corruption? Until she had come. Like a ray of elusive light piercing the veils of darkness and despair, giving him a glimpse of something he had never thought to experience. Hope. No one else other than Nadir was prepared to even consider that there might be a soul behind the mask. Nadir. Erik felt the familiar mingled emotions of affection and irritation at the name. The recollection of the Persian's surprised face when he turned up on his doorstep at the Rue de Rivoli the previous day flared vividly in his memory -

Nadir staggered backwards, an aged, dark hand gripping the door frame. "Erik!" he exclaimed, an expression of startlement etched on those distinctive foreign features.

"Well, are you going to let me in, Daroga? I never was one for exchanging pleasantries, you know."

The Persian automatically stepped aside, allowing the masked man to cross the threshold. On entering, Erik saw that the small apartment was just as he remembered it; a microcosm of the exotic with its luxuriant rugs and silk hangings and sumptuous collection of Middle Eastern ornaments adorning the shelves. He could smell the cloying dregs of hashish lingering beneath the aroma of burnt incense and the curling threads of brewed coffee that clouded the heavy air. He drew a sharp breath at the strength of it. It brought back too many memories, memories he wished to forget.

"I suppose it is asking too much to be offered a seat? Refreshment perhaps?" He turned away slightly awkwardly as Nadir continued to stare uncomprehendingly at him with those soft, dark, melancholy eyes. "Perhaps not, then."

"Erik… why are you… when… where have you been?"

Erik sank onto a cushioned divan, uninvited. "Europe mostly. Everywhere you can imagine." His voice was wearied. His journeying had not been a pleasant experience and he had no wish to dwell on it.

The older man took a seat across from him with one of those typically languid, effete gestures, ringed hands clenched in his lap. "You've… been back long?"

"Last night, actually." Erik released a breath of barely concealed frustration. He was bitter, wearied and heartsick, in no mood to engage in small talk. "Look, I will be honest with you, Daroga. This isn't a social call. In fact, I came because…" he hesitated. "I need to ask a favour of you."

Nadir knew Erik well enough to recognise the sullen resentment in his voice as he said this. Erik loathed anything that betrayed the fact he was anything less than utterly self-reliant. This uncharacteristic display of near-politeness made him immediately wary. Anything that Erik saw important enough to ask a favour for was dubious in itself. He braced himself, preparing for the worst.

"What is it you want?"

Erik was twisting his hands in his lap, his grimly shadowed gaze fixed on the circular table in the centre of the small lounge. In Persia, he had seen poisons served off such tables. "I want to borrow your carriage."

"My –?"

"Yes, Daroga, your carriage!" he snapped impatiently. "And you needn't suspect anything underhand. My stay here is only temporary. I merely need a vehicle to transport some belongings I wish to pick up from the Opera House."

"Well, I suppose I could oblige..."

"You needn't act so suspicious. Is it so wrong to actually want to reclaim a few of my possessions? Those that haven't been destroyed, of course. I have some very valuable items down there I wish to retrieve. My rather, ah, hasty departure didn't leave me much time for packing, so my ways of living these last few months have not always been – shall we say? – entirely honest."

"You mean you've been stealing."

"Oh don't look so disapproving, Daroga. You're not a constable anymore. And no, not all the time. I found work with a travelling group of players for several weeks in Monte Carlo. The acting industry always loves a sensation. I assure you, I was a phenomenal one. Then I took up with some refugee gypsies in Austria-Hungary, doing magics, idle tricks that would convince no one but peasants. But otherwise, yes, I stole. Funnily enough, a conscience becomes less influential when it's a choice between taking bread from a market place or starving. In Persia, you may have been happy enough to overlook such minor indiscretions, however…" The mask did not move, but the Persian sensed the derisive sneer beneath its immobile porcelain surface. "I can't always expect such generous oversight from the authorities."

The older man ignored the intended jibe and asked evenly. "Where do you plan on going?"

Erik sighed heavily, solemn and troubled once more. "I'm not entirely sure. Russia has made the prospect of facing a cold winter rather unappealing. I want to see sun again, Nadir, feel its heat on me. I want to travel over foreign lands I've never seen before, see if I can't yet hope to find something beautiful left in this world. There is a berth travelling to Algeria in a few days. I plan to be on board when it does."

"Africa?"

"I think Europe has become too small. I wish to start again, somewhere new, away from the past. Away from everything."

Nadir leaned heavily on the arm of his chair. He looked up at his sometime friend, dark eyes filled with emotion. "I misjudged you, Erik. I confess when I first saw you here, I thought… I thought that coming back to Paris was part of some foolhardy scheme to go chasing after Christine Daae again. I'm so glad I was wrong. Will you forgive me?"

Erik's clenched hands convulsed slightly beneath the billowing folds of his dark cloak.

"You did a very noble thing, letting her go," continued the Persian quietly.

"I still cannot understand why I did." The words left him with the sharpness of a lash, swift and bitter.

"You loved her. You loved her so much that you were prepared to do anything for her happiness, even if it meant sacrificing your own. That is love in its truest and most sublime form, Erik. And if you doubt your decision, let this decide for you."

He unfolded a newspaper cutting. It was only a small section, announcing the forthcoming wedding of the Vicomte de Chagny to Christine Daae. There, in clear-cut black letters, were the words that would mean the end of his existence. Erik felt the blood pounding in his ears. The incense scented room blurred before him in a haze. He could see nothing around him. There was a storm brewing inside him, wild and uncontrollable. Now it was written, made real, hard black against endless white, he understood what it meant. In a brief moment of clarity, he turned his unmasked profile away to hide the agonised, furious expression he knew must betray him if it were seen.

"She is moving on with her life, Erik. Now you can move on with yours." Nadir's voice was very kind.

Erik stood up quickly. He could not stand this any longer. "Where is your carriage kept?" he asked abruptly.

"Outside. Let me show you. Will you need any help transporting your luggage?"

"That won't be necessary," Erik muttered, barely aware of what he was saying. He felt himself move stiffly, half-blindly towards the door, conscious only of the urgent need to be alone. He must go at once. He must not have Nadir see him like this.

He was halfway across the threshold when he felt a hand descend on his arm. He found himself staring into Nadir's prematurely lined, painfully trusting face. That honest smile struck him like a fatal blow to his heart. He almost groaned and clutched his chest, but he was paralysed.

"I'm proud of you, Erik."

Shaking away the feelings of guilt that the memory of the encounter invariably gave him, Erik moved with the silence and stealth of a predator until the silken red drapes were within a hand's breadth. He realised he was shaking violently. He dreaded the very thing he longed for. His head was bowed penitently as though he stood at the shrine of something sacred. But eventually, desire and desperation won over discretion and he tremblingly pulled the gauzy veil aside.

Like a beautiful spirit, pale and still as Elaine drifting silently down the river, she slept. He half imagined her to be truly formed of the angelic spirit she captured in her music that soared upwards into boundless spheres and touched the threshold of heaven. An ache of longing passed through him. Tell me when you last sang thus, when your soul left your body and transported you to unimaginable heights that would leave you weeping to come back to yourself, tell me…

Music roared through his mind and body, as loud and thunderous as the raging winds and trumpet blasts that would herald the final battle. It seemed he could feel the earth turning beneath his feet; his head spun. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he would choke on its constricting spasms. Time and absence had not lessened the yearning, desperate passion he had harboured these long years. The shock of actually looking upon her once more, the sensation like a blinding pain in his heart, was bound with a furious sense of powerlessness. Always, the ecstasy and the agony. Christine Daae. What power in heaven or hell did she hold over him?

His darkly possessive gaze was filled with passion and longing as he traced with a sense of bliss and wonderment and yearning heartache, her familiar profile, its dearly remembered contours and fluid movements that were ingrained so fully in his being that for a moment he reflected if this was how God felt when watching His creation; the unique sensation of intimacy and detachment. To watch her while she was so oblivious to his presence was something that had not happened since the days she had still believed him to be an angel. Like one parched, he drank in the sight of her as though drawing life from the atmosphere she breathed, from the places she knew, the objects she touched. For the present, it was enough. For some moments he was lost in quiet contentment. To merely be in her presence was one of the greatest pleasures he had experienced in his bitter life. Pleasure was but a dream he had imagined too many winters ago. Frail, fleeting, transient. When being a ghost was the closest he had come to being truly alive. But those days were long ago. I could have watched you sing forever. But fate, madness, destiny, had impelled him to reveal himself, and to start this chain of destruction that would never end.

And so disquiet began to steal through him, marring that brief sense of serenity, bringing with it that despairing knowledge that all bliss is transient; that nothing ever lasts. The source of this came from the growing realisation that he was looking upon a Christine that was altered.

The innocent girl he had loved beyond all reason in the Opera House had matured into a slender, serious-eyed young woman who lay so still and solemn. A subtle change – imperceptible to one who did not know her so dearly as he did – had come over that beloved form. The startlingly fair complexion was as smooth as he remembered, the coronet of dark curls still lustrous and wild; no, it was the expression that was so altered, and that caused him to raise a gloved hand to his mouth in silent bewilderment.

The face he looked upon now was not quite the same as the one filled with such anguish as she had turned away from him here nine months ago. That fragile, desperate loveliness was being subtly overwritten with a fine tracery of frost, the calm solemnity of resignation. The youthful, dreamy expression that he had loved was pensive now, and grave. The gentleness was still there, he perceived; but shadowed by a chill, a coldness that all the riches and fine adornments in the world could not hope to dispel. She was starting to lose those unique elements that made her so exquisitely Christine, those hopeful dreams that illumined her with such a wild grace of imagination. He could see there were no glimpses of transcendence, no lofty flights of visionary spirit in her heart. She has given up on dreams.

Where was she? Where was she now? That spiritual ingénue filled with such pity, humility and tenderness? When had her heart begun to grow cold? When had such gravity appeared on her calm, still brow?

I will make things as they once were between us. Oh, my poor angel! How have you survived without music to sustain your soul?

Had he ever known her in a time before grief? What would she have been like in those years before she had experienced loss, when she was fresh and fair and free? Would she have always been smiling, her eyes flashing with the same unguarded innocence that Erik witnessed with jealous fury in the gaze of her unworthy Vicomte?

A consuming light flared in his shadowed eyes. The voices of his inner demons ever in his ears. She was his alone - no man would possess her… he would see himself damned before resigning her to the soft clutches of that boy - he would rain down the all the vengeance of hell first and it would be terrible -

Fate links thee to me for ever and a day. He pressed a gloved hand to his wildly pounding heart. And I will never, ever leave you.

He did not dare move his eyes from her. No, he would sit a vigil beside her through the night, remain at her side until the candles burned into blackness. Nothing would touch her while she slept. He could not bring himself to awaken her, to disturb the calm serenity of her soul. The image of her in his mind's eye would dispel the gloom that filled his lonely nights. The sole warmth in his cold, dark world. He did not sleep - only endured nightmares. It granted him no respite from the fierce and stormy emotions that consumed him. But she - his sole consolation, his beloved comforter - could keep his demons at bay.

Erik was so overwhelmed by love that even the sight of her lying before him caused him to feel no lust. Those torturous pangs had smouldered within him unnumbered times in silence and solitude, but now the very thought seemed a sacrilege. He was lost in her loveliness. The glimpse of a smooth, white elbow stunned him. The dark halo of her hair falling wildly over her shoulders struck him speechless with its sublime perfection. Her lips parted in a holy kiss. He recalled it still with burning clarity, her delicate, frosted fingers clasping his face as she pressed those lips to his in a touch of blazing communion. The sweetest surrender he had ever known. Oh, that he could have died then… his last sight in this world being her shining eyes seeing beyond all secular things, glimpsing flashes of immortality in his music -

But his life had not ended there. I was destroyed but I did not die. Something weak and cowardly within him had forced him to cling to the shattered remnants of life, even when it was now more empty and bitter than he had ever known. And he did not forget! His love was a cursed love - a damned love - but it was faithful. Neither time nor distance could sever it, much to his fury and despair. I live - but this is no life. Since that moment of nameless despair, there had been nothing left to dread. Everything had been taken from him. The resentment burned within him as he gazed at the still, unconscious form on the bed. She had no idea what awaited her. Erik hardened his resolve. Better to die together than live alone. Perhaps the only happiness he would know in this life would be when they lay beneath the earth together where no one could hunt them or hurt them. The bonds of death were unbreakable. I will have you, Christine - either in this life, or the next.

And yet… his gaze was drawn back to her… oh, she seemed the very embodiment of innocence and purity. A radiant young girl bride condemned to be a sufferer for his sins. He would end up destroying her. Not with his hand, but with his heart. He would love her to death. And what consolation could he gain from her misery and sorrow?

It was too cruel. What right did he have bringing her to this? This whole scheme had been utter madness. If he had any sense he would end this farce, this… freak show of the damned, and return her to her betrothed.

He must release her. He knew he must. He should never have seen her.

Even as he hovered, trapped in indecision, there was a gentle sigh from the bed. Erik reeled, clutching blindly at the billowing draperies. A hundred different emotions seized him, none making any lasting sense or impression. He could only wait, watching in agonised suspense as Christine stirred and her eyes slowly opened.