Not only was the box empty, but had clearly been dusted very recently and came equipped with a bottle of spirits. Erik's brow raised in surprise. Apparently this latest volley of threats to get the enigmatic Christine onto the stage had resonated with the management. They generally treated him with an air of cautious indifference, this was the first time he'd noticed an outward effort to show respect.
One could become used to such treatment.
The sounds of the supper club floated through the halls, dining reserved for only the most prestigious of patrons and invited guests that stretched on longer than was truly necessary. He could mark the progression of time without a watch, based only on the subtle cues resounding from that lavishly decorated space. There was the gentle tinkling of crystal noises that signaled the early cocktails during what was known as the "social hour." Followed by the announcement, introduction, and seating of guests. Next came the elaborate soup and fresh bread portion, where the seated attendees vainly attempted to maintain polite conversation whilst inconspicuously sipping soup and avoiding both spillage and breadcrumbs. These courses droned on and on through various versions of portion size and theme, ending with appertifs and the cheese course... why the cheese course came after the dessert was something Erik found so irritatingly peculiar about his native country, and somewhat pretentious. By the time the ladies had retired to touch up their coiffure and décolletage, and the men to their cigars and scotch, Erik was firmly ensconced in his seat, restlessly awaiting the reason for the entire celebratory affair.
The early arrivals were already aimlessly wandering the halls, the inexperienced theater-goers and the young both exclaiming in delight at the decorative touches, the design flourishes he had long grown immune to. Next to arrive were the upper loge seat holders, they were always irritatingly upper middle class and convinced that arriving early was some sort of necessity. They would mill about in the stairway below the balcony, making polite conversation with those they were already acquainted with at times, and generally looking awkward and insecure the rest. Once the sheet music was being set in place, he could hear the cheerful exclamations of the ladies returning to the supper club, and knew it was time to make his way backstage, back again to his space above the flys.
For years, as he'd watched his days wax and wane, felt the ground beneath his feet change in both form and function as the landscape shifted and spun from setting to setting, he'd always wondered at those around him who did not share his path. Those who rushed through the streets and into darkened doorways without looking at the buildings around them, those who did not tarry near the rose-trimmed gardens of Bangladesh, those who never paused to appreciate the way the glass of St. Thomas' reflected the early morning sun. He'd often tried to understand why they hurried, what would be so pressing and so urgent that they hadn't the time to appreciate their surroundings.
And although he often puzzled over it, he knew in his heart of hearts the stark reality of the truth. Sometimes, at dusk, when he was quite alone and the lights of whatever province or city he currently haunted began to flicker to life around him, those moments when he was relaxed and trying to fight the tide of stagnation rising within him, urging to press on and leave his current home... that answer, the answer full of those unrealized hopes and dreams would dangle on the horizon, just out of reach. Like delicate glass bells, gathered up by the handful and released slowly into the breeze, they played their vitreous alluring song, reminding him of what he never quite closed his grasp around, and never could. It was a maddening image, and the only way he'd found to deal with it was through chemical means, just enough to hang on until dawn roused him from his romantic musings and back into the practical world that existed by day. Even though it hastened the rising of the sun that chased away those longing regrets, it never really helped. Not truly.
They didn't notice the world around them because they had something to hurry home to. They hadn't time for the backdrop, only that someone worth rushing through life for.
So he'd comforted himself all these long years through a series of intricate lies. Not the lies he told about his past - for even though those who knew his past thought them fanciful creations of a disturbed mind, he knew every recollection was completely true. Nor the lies he wrapped himself in, the clever diversions and deceptions he used to keep himself from too much exposure, to protect himself. The lies that he had chosen to soothe his soul with were those he told himself: that he was not a member of this race that called itself humanity; that he was a being removed and enlightened, so far above their animalistic trappings and urges that he'd needn't worry about those base comforts; that he was something incapable of feeling love, and therefore the absence of one who loved him from his life wasn't something that could affect him. He'd told himself that he required only comfort and power, and since through power could he obtain the means to the level of comfort to which he'd become accustomed, that power was by far the most important thing he could strive for.
He'd told himself that it was more important to be feared than to be loved. It was much safer to be feared rather than loved, after all. Additionally, he knew how to make someone fear him. He had quite a talent for it, he'd discovered.
Yet, in spite of all of his education and studies, his experiences and his encounters, he'd never learned how to make someone love him. Love was given of free will, and none he met ever gave him their's freely. Nor could he take it, even if he took everything else.
Staring down now at Christine Daae, who waited in the half-light in a gown of resplendent elegance, her hair bejeweled and face rouged, he knew that he could have every wretched being who walked this earth in abject terror and complete obedience at his feet and it would still never be enough. For the man who believed it better to be feared than to be loved now found himself trembling and vulnerable in the awesome power she wielded.
"Christine, how could you possibly be so calm! The lead role… the lead! It is surely the work of him, it certainly couldn't be fate." The voice was Meg Giry again, the girl was practically a mosquito in the way she buzzed about Christine's ear. He watched Christine's expression turn to one of derision at the mention of "Le Fantome." It knifed his heart to watch her disdain for the tale, but it hardly surprised him. The moniker, originally something he'd embraced with lighthearted fancy, had begun to lose its shine as the tales that surrounded it grew. He was described, naturally, as the world's most horrifically ugly monster. The sight of his face, it was said, could cause instant fainting or worse - death. From the frown she wore, he could tell that Christine's reaction to the name was the same as the rest of the company. He was something to be feared, yes, but something more to be disgusted completely by. Not a man at all.
A thing.
He should return to his box. Yes. Best to watch this from a distance lest he hear something else that would rend his heart into a thousand pieces. Erik turned to make his way back to the stair when he heard her respond to Meg dismissively, a change of subject.
"I have a wonderful teacher."
It stopped him dead in mid-stride. He felt the flutter in spite of himself, and forgave her at once for her prejudices against Le Fantome. She wasn't, after all, just one of the company, was she? She was his beautiful songbird, and tonight was not only her night... it was his.
Funny how she put things so in perspective. As Erik made the journey back to his seat, he realized he no longer cared whether the earth he stood on was the center of the universe, or whether he and Christine and everything else on this planet was a speck of dust lost in the great eternity. He neither knew nor cared. All he knew, all he cared for, was that she made him happy, and for the first time in his life his own happiness was important.
The orchestra tuned, the lights dimmed, the royalty and the common man were all struggling together to find their seats. Everyone looked breathless and shiny in the rosy glow of the lamps. He'd always held some form of disdain for the idiots who found their comfort and excitement in the performing arts, for while he had no doubt they appreciated the beauty, he believed the gathered masses never truly understood the emotional response a well-executed work could engender within. Tonight was a full house, overflowing with the humiliated, outraged masses who turned their pale faces now toward the curtain, eyes closing dreamily and preparing to receive the comfort they believed this experience could bring. They imagine that the sounds that flowed into them, sweet, nourishing, and that their sufferings and desires became the music they heard. They thought the beauty that they paid to receive was compassionate toward them.
Four notes on the flute now, trilling and dying away, pulling them inward. You will feel with us. You will become us. Suffer in rhythm.
He watched in acute agitation the prelude and the introduction of the story, his fingers worrying the armrest of his chair as he awaited her appearance, the cacophony of nervous energy inside an echo of what he was sure plagued her backstage. At last, Christine made her way onto the stage and the calm washed over him. She took to the stage as if she were born there, a true natural talent: at ease, poised and statuesque all at once.
Then, her voice... that amazing pull of sound that at once fascinated and reassured him. In a sense, it wasn't new, but that was part of the attraction. The familiarity of its perfect beauty made him ache inside, as if saying to him, "I am yours, you did this." She sang the way he wished she would, as if it were possible for her even now to hear his gentle direction. The way she turned her head, the way she moved her arms, she entranced the audience and drew them in completely. Yet there were times Erik felt as if everything and everyone else had fallen away and it were only the two of them in the vast and open space. He felt as if it were his soul that laid bare on the stage before them, and that its continued existence relied on the two of them, on this very performance. There were times she looked up and it was almost as if she were staring directly into his eyes, and he felt something powerful transfer between them. This intensified through her performance, leaving him feeling exhausted and spent during the times she was absent from the stage. It was as if the fury and passion she sang with was honoring him, celebrating him, a toxic and self-serving illusion he could not help but fall beneath.
Once someone has sung for you, has poured their heart and blood and soul into a piece of music for you, that person is transformed forever in your eyes. She simply wasn't human any longer. She was something better than human, something amazing and effervescent and borne of the music he'd cultivated. She was so much more than he'd envisioned, and in turn had made him something more. She defined him, she showed him who he was.
In her voice, he was reborn.
And although it remained true that in what had seemed only moments ago he had discarded the notion of his own importance in favor of the happiness she caused to well and overflow within him, he now knew that he had been wrong once again. Christine Daae was the center of the universe, and he knew it as surely as he knew he needed her radiant fire.
"My heart foreseeing your condemnation, into this tomb I made my way by stealth, and here, far from every human gaze, in your arms I wished to die..."
He rose to his feet, feeling the strange dreamlike trance overtake him. Yes.
"Holy angel, in heaven blessed... my spirit longs with thee to rest."
The song ends, her voice quavers away, drowned in a sea of applause, and he is decided. Her voice tonight showed him, proved to him, that this was bigger than just himself, bigger than her. No, they are not the same, but they can be one. And although his is a life slaked with blood and a past that haunts him, she would join him and cleanse him, together they would end this mockery that time had made of his existence.
Behind the mirror he waited, waited to tell her of this amazing revelation he'd experienced.
And he waited.
What could be taking her so long?
When she at last burst back into her dressing room, cheeks flushed and radiant, he realized what had kept her. It was his greatest fear realized, and as he looked in mute horror at the collection of flowers that were practically overtaking the room, he wondered how he could have possibly been so stupid. Yes, he knew now. He knew, but he was alone in this staggering epiphany. While he had at last realized the breadth and depth of his adoration of her, she had been caught up in a flurry of admirers. How could he hope to still capture her attention, her affection, when she now belonged to the world?
He hadn't even time to congratulate her, she was interrupted so frequently by ardent devotees and the management, trying to get her to dine or god knows what else with this wealthy patron or that son of nobility. Although she expressed no desire to do so, and at one point broke down in an alarmingly divalike display of frustration at the requests, he still felt the doubt creeping in. It was only a matter of time, after all. Only a matter of time before he lost her to the right request, the right man.
The room was abandoned, she had crept out a good hour before and not returned, leaving him wallowing in self-pity and abject despair. Erik tried in vain not to envision the man she had finally agreed to leave with, the dark carriage he undoubtedly commanded, pulled by horses of impeccable breeding and grooming. They'd dine in one of those candlelit bistros the chorus girls drooled over, sharing an intimate supper and copious levels of wine, followed by champagne. Her suitor would suggest a moonlit stroll through the Rue, as they were so inclined to do, her head resting on his strong shoulder as he deftly tilted her chin upward, lifting her face to meet his own chiseled features.
He nearly cried out in pain from the image, the jolt sending him back into the moment as the door creaked open again. He noted with relief that she still wore the costume he'd seen her in earlier, that her hair had yet to be taken down. She hadn't left the building. Something had kept her here.
In the years he'd graced this world with his often unwanted, but sometimes useful presence, Erik had often marveled at the strange twist and turns of fate. Life was a marvelous curiosity, when observed clinically; the way things unfolded, sometimes disastrous and sometimes causing everything to fall perfectly into place. As if it were meant to be. When it was at its very best - these random events strung together to form experiences - it was very good indeed; at its worst it was unspeakable, unimaginable in its unforgiving cruelty; but first and last and all of the time it was awe-inspiring. He'd always laughed quietly at mankind's need to believe in destiny, that things were predetermined. Instead of staring in amazement at how random events led to such fortuitous occasions, men chose to believe those events were divinely ordained.
He'd never believed in it, personally. Nothing was predetermined, after all. Choices had consequences, consequences became events, events changed things, and change is how we mark time. He believed in that process. He believed firmly in sequences, orders, if-then scenarios, but always knew that the ultimate randomness of it all was what made life truly interesting. There was no fate. There was no divine intervention. There was no answer to the great mystery. Although some things seemed Meant to Be, they never actually were. It was just a fortunate outcome of meaningless interactions, seeming revelatory and perfect and spiritual because it was the outcome the person experiencing said revelation had desired all along. It was always destiny when things turned in your favor. When they didn't, no one called it fate… they just asked Why?
As a man firmly ensconced in this reality of the random, he'd considered himself reasonably at peace. It made him reassured to witness the great mystery, and to feel as if he were the only one to know that the secret, the meaning behind it all was that there was no meaning at all.
As he watched her reenter the room and close the door firmly behind her, he felt that grasp on what he believed to be true shimmer and fade. Reality folded a bit, and chance once again swept in, forcing itself upon him, shoving a new reality into his vision.
She'd sang tonight. She'd sang for him. And now she had returned, despite the offers and invitations from more worthy and suitable suitors. She'd returned for him.
He'd once convinced himself he was in love, with a selfish little Italian girl named Luciana. It had ended in tragedy, as had the other two brushes he'd experienced with more lustful infatuation. He was sure it wouldn't happen again, that he had mastered those emotions and garnered control over them. That they were fleeting at best and never really real, after all.
He'd known he planned to tell her tonight, he'd planned to end this ridiculous charade and allow her to choose freely whether to continue with him or to be free. He had planned to tell her he loved her. However, everything had changed when he watched her come through the door. As he watched Christine Daae wait in breathless anticipation, he realized just what he was witnessing for the first time. Yes, he'd listened to her sing earlier and yes, he'd realized he loved her, but until this moment he had not realized how significant a love it truly was.
He once again felt the fire grow. Yes, he knew what he was meant to do.
"Caro nome che il mio cor..." he knew how this had to continue, he knew what needed to be done.
"... festi primo palpitar." It was an innocent suggestion, wasn't it? She would understand the significance, wouldn't she? She would know this was the way it had to be.
"le delizie dell'amor, mi dêi sempre rammentar..."
He lured her with his voice, not holding back a single palpable moment of its true power.
Come to me.
"col pensiero il mio desir, a te ognora volerà..."
Yes... remember? Remember that first night. Remember the elation.
His voice dropped lower, becoming more hypnotic, rhythmic. It reached out to her, wrapped around her, pulled her. But he had to be careful, he had to make sure to choose the right moment, the moment when she would truly be ready and would follow willingly. Too soon and it would induce only panic.
"E pur l' ultimo sospir..."
His eyes trained to her face like searchlights, he watched and waited, drawing out the last line of song until he felt her will break completely. Her eyes raised, lower lip quivered as if on the edge of a sob. He heard the sharp intake of breath as her pupils became dark saucers, unseeing, blind...
There.
The mirror pivoted silently, he outstretched his hand, waiting for her to take it. Tonight she would be his, and although that realization should have stirred a sense of great victory within him, he couldn't help but feel that he had just lost this great battle. That she had won and he had lost. She had been the one thing that had finally bested him.
For, no matter what might befall them, she would forever change the way he felt about everything else.
The moment hung heavy and tense, thick as winter ice, impenetrable. He felt as if his life were suspended in it - his breath and blood in arrest, waiting, pensive. His fingers, still outstretched, trembled as he waited. Waited. Her face, freshly scrubbed of its performance paint, glowed in the dim. Rapt, attentive, completely within his thrall, she bore the look of dreamy-eyed disbelief. Her eyes opened wider, the pupils dilated fully. Yes.
Her fingers slid over his, grasping the base of his thumb as she rested her hand fully in his. Her skin was so warm, even through the glove he could feel it. Erik inhaled sharply, feeling the tingling sensation of disassociation wash over him. He fought the dizziness, steeling himself, keeping himself as reserved as possible.
"Take me, angel. I will follow you into this darkness, wherever it may lead… only let me stay with you!"
Quiet, breathless, almost inaudible, the words fluttered from her and his eyes snapped shut as if he'd been struck. She had such a way of knowing what words to allow to trip off the tip of her tongue, deadly knives of words that shredded what remained of his grace. With her vow she became the sin that stained his soul.
This idea, this dream within a dream that he had allowed to grow and blossom into fruition, became less vaporous and more ironlike with each moment. He pulled her through the underworld with the golden chains he'd woven, and like Persephone before her she followed to her own damnation.
He kept her at arms' length, even when he felt her try to push closer, the determination to fight her growing less and less with each attempt. In the great marble hall that marked the entrance to his private home he finally released his grip on her hand, stepping back from her slightly. Later, as he sat awake and unable to focus at his massive dark writing desk, he would leaf again and again through the memories, each moment bringing with it the heady mix of euphoria and misery. When was it, exactly, that this great rift in his sanity had truly begun? In that glittering moment when he'd first heard her voice? The evening when he'd heard her first swear her undying loyalty to him with all the devotion of a penitent nun? That elegant Tuesday evening, when the light of the full moon spilled across her features and he found himself wonder, for the first time, what the delicate curves of her parted lips would feel like, were he to brush the pad of his thumb against them? His excessive desire for her grew, garnering the status of an inherent singularity.
In the cold and the dark, the only light the flickering blue of dim flame emanating from the walls, he'd stood stock still. The fear of the unknown crept in. He'd not taken this abduction plan further than this, not in his mind. And now as she existed within his own personal walls, he feared more than ever before that he would not be able to hold back the rush of his frenzied hunger.
She hovered at the edge of his vision, in the shadow. With the hesitance of a kitten's first explorations into an unknown room, she wavered forward, her hands limply hanging at her sides. As if she were sleepwalking she continued her unsure steps, lurching forward slowly at first and then with more confidence. The last few steps were covered so quickly that he barely had time to react as her arms snaked around his middle, her face buried into his lapels. He remained perfectly still, his hands held stiffly out and away from her, as if he didn't trust them enough to allow them close.
Erik could hear the shuddering breaths, feel her quake against him. It was too much. Take me, angel. I will follow you into this darkness, wherever it may lead… only let me stay with you! Those words, like a verbal slap, resounded in his head. She squeezed against him and his mind tumbled down the cliff away from reason, to the inevitable. With the right words, the right carefully applied notes, she would comply completely. He would have her. Here, right here, on the cold stones without a moment's hesitation.
One of Christine's hands wound its way up the lapel, to his collar and he came to his senses. His hands found her shoulders and he pulled her away, turning her around swiftly so that her back was to him. Again he was surprised at how very warm she felt, even though the room was freezing cold and she was still clad only in her dressing gown. The fabric was sheer and silken beneath his fingers, and Erik silently cursed the barrier of his glove.
Afraid he had been too harsh, he soothed her with melodic whispers. Italian, as he'd spoken to her earlier, then in the thick tongue of Russia, the velvet draped tones of Farsi. The tale he wove was of infinite comfort and protection. You will come to no harm. He spoke of adoration, he spoke of care. She had slipped backward as he spoke, the heavy curls that had tumbled loose from their pins brushing against his mouth, the place where his collar met the bare skin of his throat.
From this daydream there was no waking. Erik's eyes closed, memorizing every detail of her scent.
When he'd found her, alone and broken, she had been "The Daae Girl." Spoken of by the management, a thing of lovely fragility he longed to draw closer to. She was "Christine Daae" in the practice rooms, in her dressing room, the name always spoken in entirety, as if through sheer formality he could hide the depth of his infatuation. Earlier this evening, she had earned the status of "Enigmatic Ingenue," by far the most glorious praise he'd heard from one of the more critical patrons.
Her weight pressed against him fully, her head lolling back against his chest. He felt his hands lose their tenuous grip on her shoulders, slipping down her arms to entwine his fingers again in hers.
Here in his embrace, finally in his arms, she was simply "Christine." Always.
His lips found her ear. "J'ai besoin de toi," he intoned softly. "Ton image hante mes nuits, me poursuit le jour, elle remplit ma vie."
Christine went limp, dropped dead away in his hold. This had been too much, he realized grimly. He'd always been so careful, treading so lightly with his words and voice. Tonight he'd given in and released the full power he commanded, and done so with words that could prove too overwhelming for someone unaccustomed to even the slightest hint of affection, of approval.
She was placed to rest in the bedroom, tucked beneath a pale-colored quilt, her hair spilling against the pillow. He considered taking her hair out of its pins, letting her rest without threat of the small metal objects disrupting her, but he feared where that would lead. It was unlikely anything he could do at this moment could rouse her from her deep slumber... she had, after all, barely stirred when he brought her in here... and he couldn't be trusted to touch her any more than he had. He'd very nearly given in to his insistent arduous impulses when she was so eagerly seeking out his attentions earlier. He'd nearly forgotten himself completely. He'd nearly done the unthinkable without a second thought, right there on the cold unyielding marble of the foyer. She turned over slightly in the bed, exhaling a light puff of air. She slept so soundly, likely wouldn't wake, not even if he...
Erik had left the room immediately without glancing back.
Now, after the blood had quieted and he had some time to reflect, the panic set in. She was here. Here. In his home, in his bed.
Eventually she would wake up.
What then?
Was he going to fix her breakfast? Discuss their favorite books? This was absolute madness. She'd awake, see where she was... who he was and it would become pandemonium.
What had he been thinking?