"Through a Mirror, Darkly"
by Kryss LaBryn
I own nothing. Please, R&R!
Chapter 9: The Kiss
I was not taking my usual route back to my dressing room. I never took the back way; it was too dark, too scary. But I wanted to avoid Raoul; once again, after almost a fortnight of peace, he seemed determined to corner me again. What had changed, I did not know, but I did not want to have another confrontation. And as scary as I found this alternate route, to my mind, it was by far the lesser of two evils.
He was not expecting me.
We rounded a corner at the same time, and stopped, face to face.
Face to skull…
I stepped back in shock, less at his appearance, which I had already heard described many times in graphic detail, and more in simple surprise at meeting anyone in that lonely corridor.
"God!" he grated, and turned to flee, but I cried out "Angel!", and he hesitated a bare moment, long enough for me to rush and catch him by his cloak. "No, please, don't go!"
He half-turned, glancing back at me in… anger? Dread? He would have pulled free but I knotted his cloak in my fists and would not let go. "Please, Angel--"
I truly believe he was about to loosen the garment and leave me standing with it, but footsteps echoed down the corridor behind him, and he hesitated again. I took the opportunity to grab his arm, and, half-pulling him, said "This way, in here--" and somehow, half leading, half dragging him, got him into the safety of my room.
Swiftly I closed and locked the door behind us, against inconvenient intruders, and turned to face him.
He stood half-turned, as though he wished to flee, but said nothing. Watched me. And with eyes straining in the dim light of an underground dressing room with the gas turned low, I finally saw my benefactor. My friend. I was finally able to drink my fill of him.
The first thing that struck me, in those dim shadows, was his height. I am not a short woman, but even curled about himself as he was, he topped me by a good head. He was also skinny—slender was too fine a word for a man whose arm I had almost been able to encircle with my hand. I could very well see why he was thought a skeleton. As for his face…
"Through ugly, and out the other side," as our charwoman had once said of another. It was true. His face was so ugly, so beyond the realm of the normal, as to no longer be constrained by usual standards of beauty. He was simply… my Angel.
He still stood motionless, braced, it seemed, against my stare. I could not quite read the expression in those strange, glowing, golden eyes: hope, I thought I saw there, and something akin to longing, but the overwhelming emotion seemed to be sheer terror.
He was paralysed with fear! Of what, I wondered? Of… me? My reaction? It gave me the courage to move, to go to him and gently raise a wondering hand to his cheek. His poor, pale, gaunt cheek… He stifled a flinch, and my throat tightened in sympathy. Had so many hurt him, that he automatically expected only pain from another's touch? Softly, slowly, as though he were a wounded animal, I brushed my fingertips down the side of his face.
He shuddered then, closing his eyes, and some of the tension seemed to leave him. Hesitantly, he raised his own hand to mine, pressing it to his poor face; so softly I might have missed it, leaning into my caress. "Christine…" he breathed, low, broken. He was trembling so hard that I honestly feared for him.
How I ached for him! With my other hand I brushed a long wisp of hair back, and whispered, "Angel--" I paused, then began anew. "Angel, what is your name?"
He looked at me, puzzled, I thought. "My name?" he echoed. A pause, then, "Erik. My name is Erik."
"Erik," I breathed. Gently, I pulled his head to mine, whispering, "I love you, Erik," and, closing my eyes, I pressed my lips to his.
His lips were soft and cool against mine. After a moment, his arms gently enfolded me, and we stood thus for a long moment, in rapture, complete.
Then his arms crushed me to him, his mouth opening under mine. Then, oh God! his tongue flicked out and tasted my lips and I opened my mouth to his and his tongue entered me, licked the insides of my mouth as I tasted him back, suckling his tongue a long moment, more, yes, my love, more! His body was hard against mine as, weak with desire, I sank to my knees, pulling him down, my hands on his head urging him closer, then he gently pressed me back to the floor, his lips leaving mine to trail kisses and endearments against my ear, down my neck, as I did to him, gasping with the overwhelming pleasure of it, his leg pressing between mine as my hips rocked his with an instinctive rhythm, and then there was no more room for thought…
When I awoke, I was curled up on my sofa. The room was not dim as I remembered, but well-lit and cheerful. I was alone.
I almost wept then, thinking it had all been a dream, but then I smelt his scent on me, sandalwood and musk and earth, and I could still feel him pressed against me, still taste him on my lips. Not a dream then; thank God, not a dream. Why had he left?
I sat up, almost surprised that I was still dressed, that such strong emotions could come from a kiss alone, and realized that my underthings were damp and sticky. Hastily, not knowing when-- if? he might return, still trembling, I changed.
It was some little while later that I heard him softly exclaim, "You're up!" He sounded disappointed.
I looked up from my book and smiled. "Hello, Erik."
"I'm sorry; I had hoped to return before you awoke. I needed to-- Well, never mind. How do you feel?"
"I am fine, Erik, and you?"
"Oh, quite well," he answered diffidently.
"Will you not join me?"
"Join you?"
"Yes, I had hoped you would still be here when I awoke." I moved over, patted the cushion beside me. "Please. Come and sit with me."
A pause, then, "Very well," and, to my surprise, the great mirror at the end of my room slid aside, and he stepped through.
To my disappointment he was wearing a mask, a soft silk thing with silver embroidery about the eyes, that concealed his whole head. He stopped just inside my room, then his cloak swayed momentarily, as if he had started to take a step but checked himself.
"Please, Erik," I said, "You don't need to wear that. Take it off?"
"I'd rather not."
"You show your face to the others of the Opera," I reminded him gently, "May I not see it again?"
"It's different," he said awkwardly; "They see the Ghost, not… Erik."
I sighed. "I understand," I said, and truly I did. I myself wore costumes on stage that I would be mortified to be seen in on the street, where they would be looking not at an Egyptian slave girl, but at me. Christine.
"Come and sit," I said again, and, finally, he did.
He was somewhat stiff, and obviously uncomfortable. Was he regretting what had occurred already? I hated the awkwardness between us, so, seeking to break the tension, I said, "Have I told you about La Carlotta's last mishap?"
"No, you haven't," and his head tilted attentively.
So I told him all about it: the shriek ("Yes, we heard that up in Heaven!"), and her look of utter indignation. "She looked so ridiculous, I don't know how we didn't laugh," I giggled. "I think if we had she might have actually exploded from sheer rage!"
He laughed too, a warm, thrilling sound, and I was reminded again of the feel of his lips, his tongue on mine… "I can well imagine!"
Oh dear, was he reading my mind? Flustered, I looked down at my hands in my lap, which had been pressed so hard against his own; oh God, I don't think I can do this! But he continued, "Being brought low before those she considers her inferiors would be the ultimate humiliation for Carlotta…"
Oh, thank God; not a mind reader then! "Of course she said that something grabbed her, and half the chorus thought it was the Ghost expressing his opinion of her… Was it the Ghost, Erik?" I half-smiled at him sideways, through lowered lashes.
He chuckled, making my stomach quiver anew, and said, "No; no, if anyone grabbed her, it was not I." He sighed slightly, and in a moment of revelation I said, "It must be very trying to be blamed for every powderpuff that goes missing."
He chuckled again, and said, rather slyly, "Well, not all the missing powderpuffs are not my fault!" Then, sobering slightly, "I must admit, I did enjoy causing the odd bit of havoc the first few years, but nowadays…" He sighed deeply.
How long have you been here, Erik?"
"I have always been here," he replied, staring straight ahead; "When the first curtain rose on the first act of the first performance, I had been here ten years already."
I was taken aback. It had been so hard to judge, between his face itself and the dark, but, "You are not a young man, are you, Erik?" I asked softly.
He looked away slightly, but made no reply. I raised my hand to his shoulder, but he had already risen. He held a hand out to me, and said, suddenly, "Let us sing, Christine."
He helped me rise, then, without warning, launched into the duet from Othello, and, God help me, I truly did not know how I was ever to receive instruction from him again, without that angelic voice bringing me to my knees, weak with desire. Then it was Desdemona's turn, and I sang with a passion and an understanding I had never felt before. Never before had I truly realized, truly understood, with every fibre of my being, the madness of a love so deep it would drive Othello to kill his lover rather than lose her. Had I thought that Erik, suddenly so cold and awkward, did not truly care for me? I now knew otherwise. His love for me, expressed in every thundering note of the vengeful Moor's song, was as great as mine for him, as pure, as passionate. I suddenly felt a great welling of sympathy for any poor fool who might try to come between us.
Finally, the duet ended, and we stood, face to face, silent. I was rather overwhelmed by the moment. And suddenly I was rather glad, in a perverse way, that he was wearing the mask, for the sight of his mouth, his lips, giving sound to that Voice would surely have undone me. Lessons will be most difficult, I reflected wryly, if every time I hear him I want to tear my clothes off and throw myself at him! Not very good for my concentration…
He seemed to be thinking along similar lines, for he sighed, a bit wistfully, and murmured, "It's just as well…"
"Just as well..?"
He straightened, and said, "You have learned all that I can teach you," and added solemnly, and a bit formally, "You can now, Christine Daaé, give to men a little of the music of Heaven."
"Ah," I said sadly, "No more lessons."
"Well, not as such, no," he said, "But you will still need to practice, and there will be many roles for you to master. You are not quite done with your teacher yet."
I smiled then, and reached for his hand. "I'm glad," I said; "I would not want to think--"
I was interrupted by a sudden thunderous knocking on my door. And, drat it, drat it, drat it, Raoul's voice calling to me.
"Christine! Christine! I know you're in there with him! For pity's sake, Christine, let me in!"
"Oh, God," I whispered, and looked up to Erik in fear. "What do I do? He'll break the door in if he continues like that!"
"Come," he said, and, grabbing my hand, pulled me to the mirror. It slid aside, and I think, I think it closed again behind us before the lock gave, and Raoul burst into my room behind us. I was shaking in terror. Erik gathered me in close. "It's all right," he whispered against my hair, "The glass is thick and quite strong, and he'll never find the catch. We're safe."
"Oh God, Erik--" I sobbed, muffling my voice in his shirtfront.
"We're safe," he repeated, gently stroking my hair; "We're safe.
"Come with me."
A/N: I'm sorry; it's going to take me a few days to finish the next chapter, due to mundane considerations. However, please rest assured that I will post again as soon as possible. And if you do purchase "Tales and Legends", let me know what you think!
