A/N: It seems as though what started out as a lighthearted comedy has become more of a dramedy. Hang in there with me, please, and as always, please review!
Chapter 8- Bal Masque
His eyes gazed into the guest room, its furnishings bare and vacant, as empty and lifeless as it had been prior to when Erik had occupied it. Nadir's heart felt heavy as he stepped inside, observing the empty hangers in the closet, the wooden dresser top bare and smooth. The bed was neatly made, its covers tucked in tightly, and on top of the pillow Nadir found an envelope. His dark hands were quick to retrieve it, and fingers even quicker to remove the letter inside. He held his breath as he read the elegantly scripted words:
Dear Nadir,
I would like to convey my thanks to you for your help, as I do realize that your intentions were and always have been honorable. I apologize for my behavior, when you sought only to give me the opportunity for a better life. I wish I could accept this great gift with both hands, and be content without a memory of who I was, and aspire to be a better man as you had hoped and planned. I would like to express my humble appreciation for the trouble and inconvenience that my presence has effected. All is not lost, daroga. Please know this: For as long as I live, I will strive to lead an honorable life, and apply the wisdom that I have learned from my time with you. I wish you success with your life, Nadir, and will always remember you as my friend.
No hard feelings.
Your friend,
Erik
It had been difficult for Erik to resist the rich, scarlet velvet costume with its matching black boots. His eyes found a horrific skeletal mask, and it had called to his very being. It was positively morbid, and intimidating, and oh so perfect. The outfit had reminded him of red death. Yes, it had been difficult, but in the end, heeding the words of his friend to be discreet, the former phantom chose a far less conspicuous suit of black. With its modest fringed accents, and shiny gold buttons, it was hardly his first choice. But as he tied the gold-lined black bow neatly, he could not help admiring his reflection in the mirror. Having gained some weight from his stay with Nadir, he filled the suit out nicely, and his skin had a healthy glow. Best of all, the thin black eye mask he chose, he wore solely for recreation rather than necessity. With a smile, he smoothed down the hair of his wig, and tied it properly into a tail. Erik had spared no expense for this disguise, and had considered every detail. Though the idea of sticking colored contact lenses into his eyes was unappealing at best, Erik had struggled several times inserting the loathsome small plastic discs, but finally found the result well worth the effort. And the final touch - the mustache - he applied the adhesive just above his upper lip, and pressed the thin strip against his skin.
Erik had been looking forward to this night for a long time, even longer than he had known.
As Meg fussed with the ties on the back of Christine's gown, Raoul looked disapprovingly at his fiancée's gloved hand.
"Christine, why aren't you wearing your ring?"
The brunette looked up into the hurt brown eyes of the man she had promised to marry, who was handsomely clad in a black Russian soldier costume, and ran her fingers along its bright golden braids.
"The ring," she began thoughtfully, her eyes looking to the ceiling, "was not….large enough to wear over the gloves," she improvised.
Raoul opened his mouth to speak, but Christine was quick to cut him off.
"Don't you see, Raoul?" she smiled charmingly, pulling the gold chain from her chest, and fingering the ring on the end of it. "It's right here."
He shook his head, and his perfectly combed golden hair didn't move an inch. "Christine, we are engaged, and you haven't told anyone…"
Meg's feathered headpiece appeared from behind Christine, and her blue eyes looked brightly at Raoul. "She told me."
"See?"
"But…" Raoul countered, but as he stood before the two beauties who had taken an intimidating sisterly stance, he felt as though his argument would be best saved for another time.
"Right, well…"
"Meg, didn't you say earlier that Monsieur Firmin was looking for Raoul?" Christine asked her friend with wide eyes, silently begging her to play along.
Catching her signal, Meg smiled and turned to the dashing vicomte. "Uh, yes, uh, Firmin, he was looking for you."
"But…"
Christine grabbed his shoulder and turned him toward the grand hall. "He's waiting for you. Better hurry!"
Raoul's feet carried him away from his childhood love, and he looked back toward her sweet face questioningly.
Her delicate fingers held the ring up again reassuringly, and she spoke as he walked away. "It's right here," she said again. "Right next to my heart."
Somehow in Raoul's mind, just that one statement made all the difference, and he turned with a smile in search of the Opera Populaire's manager.
Meg couldn't help it and elbowed Christine with a giggle. She held up her own necklace in her hand, and spoke in a devilishly mocking voice. "Right next to my heart."
The singing voices guided him as Erik followed the music of the impressive chorus, their rich harmonies drawing him like a magnet. Stealthily, he traversed the interweaving corridors, taking in the lush interior of the Opera House, admiring every detail from floor to ceiling. Richly costumed patrons circulated the monumental building, watching with awe as the cast performed a dazzling show of song and dance, and seemingly lost in the throngs of people, he edged his way above the grand hall.
"Sorry that our phantom fellow can't be here," Erik heard one man say to another. The two men stood side by side, gossiping like church ladies, laughing and carrying on about the blessed absence of their opera ghost. A dark brow rose above Erik's narrow black mask as he tried in vain to blend in among the crowd and eavesdrop on the two ridiculously garbed men. One wore ram's horns atop his head, and the other's hat resembled a rooster's comb.
Erik's hands moved along the railing slowly. With his head forward, he was watching the performance below, while his ears still listened to the managers' mocking voices, when he sharply collided with another man's shoulder.
"Pardon me," Erik said apologetically, realizing that he had not been paying attention to where he was going.
"Quite alright," Raoul replied distractedly, still in search of the Opera House's manager, not even noticing the face of the man before him.
"Nice costume," Erik commented politely, before slipping away.
A look of relief washed over the vicomte's face as he finally located Monsieur Firmin, and absently he turned to face the masked man. "Thank you."
The sharp insults of the voices had penetrated his skull, tearing into him like vicious claws. Unnoticed, Erik passed numerous guests, and members of the troupe, picking up their disgustingly elated comments of his disappearance, the relief that he was no longer there, the horror stories of his many hauntings. Disheartened, the former phantom searched the sea of faces below, the elegantly dressed society of Paris, hidden behind the cover of masks. To his dismay, he did not recognize a single soul, and without one ounce of recall, he stood at the top of the grand escalier and sighed. Maybe Nadir had been right. Ready to depart from the opulent building, with its marble floors and ornamental statues, Erik's heart sank. As he turned to leave, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the vision of an angel.
She must have been an angel, he thought, watching her radiant face as she chatted with the buxom blonde beside her. He would not have noticed her at all while she held the feathery mask to her face, but as her gloved hand lowered the mask to her side, Erik's breath caught in his throat.
It was she… Colleen…maybe…
Erik didn't feel the floor beneath his feet, or the brush from other bodies as he swayed past. All he could focus on was her shiny auburn hair that fell in glorious curls to her back, and how her skin glowed against the pale pink of her gown, and how her face reminded him of a porcelain doll. The delicate beauty danced with graceful movements, and as the music stopped, she brought her small gloved hands together and clapped, her lips forming a tantalizing smile. She and her friend then proceeded to move away from the dancing area as the music began once again, and Erik followed, determined not to allow himself to lose sight of her. He had to meet this resplendent young woman. Every breath he took brought him closer to her, and he felt his heart and his soul begin to come alive once again.
"May I have this dance?"
Christine looked up in surprise at the tall gentleman before her. Her first instinct would have been to politely decline, and though she did not recognize the masked stranger or his voice, he seemed oddly familiar. With a slight nod, she allowed her tiny hand to fall into his large, welcoming palm.
In awe, Meg watched as the young soprano was swept away by the attractive mystery man, whom she surely did not recognize. The stranger was charming and confident, and had garnered many looks from other members of the fairer sex. Still, Meg had to wonder what was going on in the crazy, mixed up mind of her engaged friend.
Christine's mouth was absent of any words.
She looked up into the mesmerizing hazel color of the man's eyes before her. His hand held hers lightly, and she was surprised by how natural it felt to have his other hand resting gently above her waist as they moved in time with the music. At that moment, she felt frozen in time, and everything around her seemed to fade away. Her eyes devoured his features, the strong set of his jaw that was impossibly familiar, the perfect straightness of his nose, the honey color of his thin mustache. The man's thick, sandy colored hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. He was tall and every bit of him was masculine. His identity eluded her, and she found herself completely captivated by him, by the way his eyes seemed to memorize every inch of her face, with a look of adoration that melted her insides. Christine could not pull her own gaze from the appeal of his countenance, and could not ignore the tingling sensation that his touch produced.
He was an overwhelming curiosity to her, though. His black mask, though narrow, was the true cover to his identity. For some reason, she did not feel the desire to expose him, as she had done so hastily to another once before. Erik. Her heart still ached for her former maestro. A tiny voice nagged at her. Could this perfect Adonis, with his similar mannerisms, height and build possibly be her tortured, scarred Erik? The very idea was preposterous. She had only to look with her eyes to see the many differences, not to mention the fact that Erik would never appear here in the light of day. The idea was just too unlikely for her mind to entertain. Indeed, it was too much to hope for, but for right now, for just this moment, the graceful movements of the dance with this tender stranger granted her heart some peace.
He had a thousand questions for the enchantress he held in his arms. But as his gaze wandered from the curls that played about her milky white shoulders to those amazing, large brown eyes reminiscent of a doe's, he was both lost within her presence, and at a loss for words. He longed to touch the silky smoothness of her skin, wondering how it would feel to kiss those perfect pink lips. He wondered if she could see the longing that must have surely been reflected in his own eyes, if she could sense the rush of emotions that surged through him like a raging river. Daringly, their bodies moved closer together, narrowing the gap between them as the melody drew to a close. Erik watched as his hand, seemingly of its own accord, move to the perfection of her rosy cheek, and with awe, observed as her own hand, tiny in comparison, rest on top of his, squeezing it with an aching gentleness.
Disguising his voice carefully once more, he asked her softly, "May I have the pleasure of your name?"
Her lips parted to reply, but was interrupted by a rather harsh male voice.
"I believe the lady has promised the next dance to me."
"Raoul," she said, startled, looking at the man beside them.
Erik had managed to block out the thunderous applause of the other guests, and the idle chatter around them, but when he heard her sweet lips give voice to that name, he felt his blood turn cold. Although he had no recollection of who this Raoul was, or what association he might have had with him, he knew that name, and as he looked into the man's disturbed, perfect face, a stab of rage tore into him like a dagger.
Erik looked to her to gauge her reaction, but for the first time his gaze wandered to her chest, finding a gold chain, and to his heartbreak, a diamond-studded ring as its pendant.
Your chains are still mine, you belong to me.
He had no idea where that thought had come from, or why he had the overwhelming urge to say those words and angrily rip the hated chain from the tempting creaminess of her cleavage. It was only a slight comfort that Raoul's appearance did not seem to have a pleasing effect on her, and Erik's heart stung with the realization that this exquisite being was promised to another. His mind began to question everything, and his thoughts spun wildly as he stole away, disappearing into the crowd.
