Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.
The Mask's Lament.
Chapter Nine.
The absence of an age-old innocence fell away, descending into the ever-churning waves of dissolution. The antediluvian structure that held such balance, such relief, collapsed within itself; the archaic ideology thus being shattered, its ashes saturating the merciless sea with its remnants.
The mournful cry of its lament, however, went unheard, unknown to the rest of the world as a foray of snowflakes collided against the cold, unforgiving glass panes of a gilded window. The life of each flake, though fleeting, melded itself against the translucent surface, as if becoming one with something greater than its small intricate form could ever fathom.
As such, the breath of life escaped it, depriving it of the vivacious spirit it once possessed. And like a star fading out of existence, so too, did it subside and become nothing more than a small droplet of purified ice, gathered amongst a congregation of others.
Christine watched the snowfall from the gothic window; her azure eyes were riveted—captivated—by the beauty of a white death. Eternity hung within the balance as the idle, blissful metaphors that dominated her mind fell from the idyllic happiness in which she felt. She looked away from the lifeless wasteland and gazed at the vanity mirror's reflection, seeing beyond the cold metal and glass.
Her vibrant eyes dimmed from her reproachful likeness, facing the porcelain illusion once more. She disregarded the artificial countenance and concentrated on the mirror itself. What lay behind it? she idly wondered. Would an unseen apparition return her blatant stare? Or would it silently mock her for her idiocy?
The misconceptions of her brief resurrection in knowledge only brought forth a new realization: ignorance of the unknown would always be a part of her life. The unforgivable, inequitable pull of madness led to the disenchanted notions of an indefinite absolution, a feeling of being almost complete. Christine yearned for that, desired the amalgamation of becoming one with a greater being. And yet, she was torn asunder from that intrinsic need as another strap of her corset fell into place.
"Christine," Mina's steady voice called from behind.
Christine turned, facing her maid with a questioning eye. "Yes, Mina?"
"Are the laces too tight?" The maid glanced at her work, her face contrite with the image of the caged prison upon her mistress. "It seems that I always lace them too tightly…"
"They are fine, Mina," Christine reassured her with a convincing smile, hiding the pained truth behind it. "I would prefer them to be too tight than too loose."
Mina returned the false gesture. "Indeed. Either faint or have your gown come apart... A difficult choice for many, I imagine." Her grin widened. "Though I must confess that I have witnessed a few incidents that bordered upon an embarrassing scandal—or I should say, a terrible embarrassment to a few ladies—whose names I will not mention—during a few of the Imperial balls."
Seeing Christine's interest, she continued. "I must say that wearing a fichu during a Russia mazurka is not very wise, nor is it prudent to…ah…have a set of loose jewels over a gaping décolletage. I believe the poor woman has yet to recover from that incident."
The prima donna laughed, despite the fact that she should indeed pity the poor women's misfortunes. Incidents such as those that Mina had blithely described were quite common during fêtes and gala masquerades at the Opéra Populaire. Once incident, in particular, came to mind. It was highly doubtful that she could share the fact that the fair and beautiful La Carlotta sang like a toad during a performance…
Her mind suddenly shifted to that night. Erik had been the cruel origin behind the Spanish diva's tragic shame. His art as a ventriloquist had proved beyond compare, unparalleled by the staged artists the rest of the world affectedly acclaimed.
She remembered his cruelty, his malice, and his childish machinations; his human pawns inadvertently doing his will. The managers, the stagehands, even the esteemed Madame Giry followed the instructions the Opéra ghost left in his notes—some of which, both commanded and threatened his pawns into submission.
Christine vaguely recalled the hatred Firmin Richard disclosed that night when she stole into the Opéra. Yet, his hatred also reflected the annoyance of her abrupt flight from the stage and the tragedy that had sadly followed it. The body of Philippe had washed upon the banks on the Rue Scribe side, his death being the result of a mere accident. Raoul's vain attempt to save her was deduced as only a momentary bout of madness. And as for the Opéra ghost…Erik was merely an illusion, a fantasy contrived by the ingenious minds of the corps de ballet.
With that knowledge, Christine doubted the truth would ever be revealed, and the story behind it would one day become nothing more than a forgotten memory, faded and decayed by Time's wearing touch. And although the remains of her fractured sanity cried out against such madness, she wished for it to remain as such.
Erik would never be safe if the whole of Paris—the world—knew of him. The many deaths, tragedies, and crimes he had committed over the years would certainly condemn him. Christine refused to subject him to the cruelties of the world any further. Even if he caused so much misery for others…even to her…she could never inflict another fragment of pain upon his soul.
She cared for him…Deeply. There were no words, no reasons as to why she felt such a strange yet conflicted attraction towards him. It was not in the sense of true love, but more of an understanding of his soul. She was bound to him in a way that marriage could never ordain. It was innate—instilled within her, giving her a new sense of awareness and inevitably shattering another concrete barrier of her inborn naivety.
A recent, more pleasant memory then bordered upon the horizon of her mind. The past weeks she had spent with him increased a subtle admiration of him. He had been considerate to show her the palace, taking her through many of its galleries and private rooms. She saw a side of him that she had not seen since…since he let her go, releasing her from the vows she had reluctantly made to him and relinquishing whatever hold he had on her.
Erik had unwillingly resigned his rights to her, giving her the liberation she wanted, desired most in the world with a promise to leave her be. He promised her, allowing her to marry the man—boy—he had lost her to. With his blessing, Christine was released from those hallowed vows, free to leave him and live the rest of her days in peace with the man she allegedly loved…
However, the false vision she once had of the providential union was now faded, obsolete. She could no longer envision it, or even understand her reasons for such childish fantasies. It was as if she had awakened from a dream, only to find it discarded, and strangely unwanted.
Though in spite of everything that had transpired, she could not find any regret for her loss, for it was by fate—and a cruel betrayal—that had changed the sobbing, incoherent Erik into the vengeful creature that he was, compelling him to take her as his prisoner; his self-righteous indignation strangely justified.
And now, here she was, his once more. However, this time, willingly.
"Christine," Mina's voice interposed. "I believe the empress will be most pleased with your choice in gowns," she commended her mistress, silently admiring the pale-yellow evening gown. "Madam Tuevelle is certainly gifted at her craft."
Christine examined the gown in the mirror and vaguely smiled. The final sum of her fitting and gowns had certainly depleted whatever commission Erik had retained from the tsar. Inwardly, she felt a little remorseful for accepting the gowns and other garments she had purchased, but Erik would not accept any apology. Instead he commended her choices, telling her that she would be the true illustration of a flawless wife—his wife.
It was an odd statement, but could she expect any less of him? Erik was an anomaly, a brilliant enigma. And one she greatly appreciated. Without Erik, it would be impossible to endure this endless masquerade and its intricate web of wondrous deceit. Without Erik…
"Indeed she is," Christine finally agreed, returning her thoughts to the present conversation. "I cannot believe she finished them within a week's time."
"One of her many talents," Mina informed her, smiling. "And also one that has made her infamous within many countries. At this moment, I do not doubt that England's aristocracy is in a terrible malaise." She placed a silver pin into Christine's hair. "I heard that her parting from the Victorian court left many young women rather…discomforted by the news."
"Do many depend upon her services?" Christine turned, eyeing the maid with sheer astonishment. "There are many other women who design gowns. Surely…"
Mina smiled at her mistress' baffled expression. "Ah, but many do not have the talent that Madam Tuevelle has. Nor do many gently bred ladies wish for any other. It is fashion, and is considered to be one of true significance."
"Many women in Paris also seem to have that notion," Christine reflected blandly. "I remember how many would wear the same, ridiculous style of dress—the colours were atrocious and unpleasant to the eye." She grimaced at the horrid memory. "It is unpleasant to even speak of it."
"Truly?" Mina asked. "And many of our courtiers have a tendency to envy Parisian fashion. It is considered to be haut monde to many." Saying this, Mina urged for Christine to rise. "However, come. I do believe the empress—and her children—are waiting for you."
Christine nodded; accepting the shawl Mina offered her. "I have already met her youngest son; he was rather shy."
"He usually is," Mina concurred with a slight smile. "The tsarevich and his brother, George, however, are certainly quite a pair. And Xenia…the grand duchess is unfortunately placed in the middle of three brothers." She sighed with palpable dismay. "I pity the poor child."
"It must be difficult for her. Although I do confess that I sometimes wished for a sibling myself." Christine slightly frowned. "It was rather difficult when my mother passed away and Papa was left with the obligation to watch over me." Her eyes fell to Mina, giving the maid an insightful glance. "It is hard to let go of things that have already faded from this world…"
Mina inwardly flinched at Christine's words, knowing all too well of the abstract irony behind them. It was difficult to imagine the woman before her ever knowing the feeling of such loss. And yet, she did. It made her seem almost…common—to a certain degree. Yet, Christine de Maricourt would never be something as mundane and degrading as an impoverished mortal born of the lower caste, she silently reflected.
"I know," Mina quietly agreed. "We seem to share a common bond, Christine. I lost my own mother last winter. I have no one else. No one other than the other servants here and a few acquaintances."
"I am sorry for your loss," the prima donna murmured dejectedly, realizing that the impact upon losing her own mother was not as severe as Mina's loss had apparently been. She could faintly recall the image her mother, mainly the sound of her lovely dulcet voice, though the face and maternal expressions were a little harder to call to mind. Each day, she lost another piece of the woman who bore her. And each day, the face that belonged to the memory also faded into the acute demise of an absence she utterly despised.
"Do not be. My mother did not suffer; she died in her sleep." A tear escaped from a hazel eye. "It was God's will that she be taken quietly within the night."
Christine looked at Mina, her expression thoughtful. "I am sure it was," she answered brokenly, giving a sense of closure to the dismal subject.
"Come, Christine," Mina said, dismissing the ache of loss within her embittered heart. "The empress will be waiting."
…
"I have told you before, Nicky: I saw him in the hallway with Father not but three days ago."
The tsarevich merely glowered at his brother and disregarded the illegitimate drivel. "George, many people converse with Father in the halls. It is not at all uncommon for them to do so."
George returned his brother's apathetic stare. Undeterred by Nicholas' laconic acknowledgement, he muttered, "But still, I saw him. The man—whatever he was—was wearing a mask." He turned to his sister and grinned. "It was dark, Xenia. Darker than you could ever imagine, and this strange man, wearing a white mask, was speaking to our father…" His voice lowered several degrees. "He was wearing a black cloak and the only things you could see other than the horrid cracked mask were his yellow eyes, which gleamed like two stars borne of hellfire…"
Xenia outwardly gaped at her brother and sought protection from him by hiding behind Nicholas. "Make him stop, Nicky," she pleaded to her oldest brother. "He frightens me…"
Nicholas, though only a few inches taller than his brother, towered over him like the future tsar he was destined to be. "Stop this nonsense, George. I have had enough," he reproached in a regal tone.
The sardonic passion within the grand duke's eyes subsided, giving in to his brother's cold censure. "All right, brother. I will stop. Though I must say that I would love to have eyes like that. I am sure that I could frighten half of Father's guests," he mused with a devious grin. "That would certainly surprise Mother."
"Give her a failure of the heart is more like it," the future tsar derided in a dry voice. "Besides, what does it matter whether or not—"
"Children," Marie interrupted her son as the doors to the library opened. Eyeing them with remote suspicion, she said, "I wish for you to meet out guest of honour," She extended an imperial hand out to Christine in a dignified gesture. "This is Madam de Maricourt."
Three pairs of questioning eyes turned and stared at Christine in silence. The prima donna flinched under their intrusive scrutiny as the harsh silence between them droned on within the library. The mute agitation between her unyielding observers began to unnerve her. Never before did she feel so restless, so uncertain of herself. Even when she smiled and deceived complete strangers her first night here, she could not find enough courage to speak or say anything at all.
Marie, watching the disquiet between her children and guest, was the first to shatter the burgeoning discomfort between parties. "Remember your manners," she inaudibly reminded her discourteous brood.
"Madam," the children said in unison, curtly yet regally bowing to her.
Christine mirrored their stilted greeting, silently regretting her poor attempts at proper etiquette. "It is a pleasure to meet all of you," she murmured graciously, tenderly smiling at the vacant faces.
"Madam, you honour us by your presence here," Nicholas returned in a somber, cordial voice. "I do hope that your visit here remains as one to remember kindly." He bowed, taking her hand in his and lightly tracing his lips over her gloved fingers. "Please call upon me should you need anything."
"Merci, your grace." Christine blushed at the young man's inconceivable courtesy, inwardly dispelling the belief that a child so young could exemplify such civility. It was as if it had been ingrained within him, proving that of his noble bearing.
She glanced at the other children. Michael was not present, but his siblings shared an incredible resemblance to each other. The future tsar had apparently been the one to greet her so intimately, while the others were his younger siblings.
The daughter, Xenia, who was partially obscured by her brother, gave Christine a slight smile as she turned to her mother. The empress silently gestured for her daughter to come away from her brother and stand by her side. Xenia obeyed without question as her silent mother placed a loving hand upon her shoulder. "And this is my daughter, Xenia, whom I am sure to have mentioned to you before." She then glanced at her sons. "And these are my sons, George and Nicholas."
Christine nodded to the imperial sons in acknowledgement, vaguely noticing the striking similarity between their facial expressions. "A pleasure, your graces," she demurred.
Nicholas returned Christine's shy smile whilst George overtly stared at her. His gaze hardened, as if uncovering a secret hidden under the delightful façade of the strange yet fascinating woman before him. "Madam, are you the one who survived the train accident near the border?" his shrill voice questioned as his blue eyes widened from the realization.
"Yes…" Christine answered warily, her voice heavily shrouded. "I am she."
After a long moment of silent deliberation the grand duke finally spoke. "It must have been a trying time for you—to escape such peril." His eyes lightened from his dark thoughts. "I must commend you, madam. Truly, you have inspired many here in the art of surviving the harsh jurisdictions of the world."
The prima donna blanched at the grand duke's words. "Your grace," she began timidly. "Surely…"
"No," he interjected. "I am honoured to be in your presence. Perhaps you can recant your story to us."
"Another time, George," Marie answered for Christine, eyeing her son with a hint of speculation. "For now, I only wish for all of you to meet our guest; she will be staying with us for quite a while."
Nicholas' somber eyes brightened at his mother's words. "That is splendid news," he remarked, his eyes remaining solely upon Christine. "If you stay with us through the spring, you must permit me to take you boating on the lake sometime. It is an impressive sight for someone who is foreign to its beauty." His slight frown fell away, revealing a shy, timid smile. "That is, if you would want to, of course."
"I would love to, your grace," Christine mirrored his smile.
The tsarevich looked away, slightly blushing from her acceptance.
Marie looked at her son with what be considered as approval, however veiled with a hint of distrust. "A considerate thought, Nicky," the empress commended her son. "The lake is, indeed, a wonderful place in the spring." She turned to Christine. "However, I must say that the gardens are one of my favourite places to visit while staying here. I am sure that we shall take quite a few outings in the spring."
Before Christine could agree to Marie's proposal a knock upon the library door interrupted her. She turned a curious eye to the set of gilded doors, but said nothing as the unknown soul lingered behind them.
"Yes?" Marie asked an imperious voice, the door opening to her acknowledgement.
The downcast face of a maid inclined herself further to exemplify the expected veneration of those higher in rank than she. Her pale eyes shifted, moving to faintly consider that of the empress. "Your highness," she murmured reverently. "The Countess Alessandrov has come to call. She wishes to see you."
"Tell her that I will be there as soon as I can be," the empress commanded in a congenial tone.
"Your highness, if I may," the timid maid broke in, "she was rather persistent in her request to see you."
"Dear God," Marie muttered to herself. "What is so important that she requests my audience at this moment?" she asked the maid in an exasperated tone.
"Her granddaughter is with her," the maid reluctantly supplied.
Marie frowned at the maid's condemning words. "I see," she briefly paused, her frown deepening. "Then I shall be there directly," she said, dismissing the maid from her sight.
A tense sigh escaped the empress as her face expressed that of distant irritation. "I do apologize for this," Marie directed her words to Christine, then looked at her children. "Entertain Madam de Maricourt in my absence. I will return shortly."
The children said nothing to their mother's command as they watched her quit the room in a tired yet incensed fashion. George glanced at the door, sighing as his siblings shared his unspoken thoughts. "Mother is certainly upset," he commented lightly, then smiled. "I do hope that the Countess Alessandrov is not fobbing her horrid granddaughter off on us."
"Oh, don't even utter that wretched possibility!" Nicholas rejoined, imitating his mother's imperious frown. "It's bad enough to see her in the court, let alone have her as a guest here." He sighed, then turned a remorseful eye to Christine. "I do apologize, madam, our manners"—he directed his comment toward he and his brother—"have been rather lacking as of late."
Christine said nothing to the tsarevich's apology; she only nodded, accepting his admission of guilt. "Your grace," she began, turning the gauche conversation away from the unnecessary apology. "If you please tell me about the palace in the spring, I would greatly appreciate it."
"Of course," Nicholas beamed, forgetting his momentary lapse of etiquette. "The palace is certainly beautiful during the spring and summer months. Mother was right about the gardens, too. We also have park here as well." He glanced at the window and sighed. "However, during the winter, it can become quite dull here. It is much better to spend the cold months in St. Petersburg or Moscow. Our family usually stays there until the Season has ended. You came a little too late, I fear; we just left the capital a few days before your arrival."
"Is St. Petersburg that beautiful?" Christine asked naively.
Nicholas grinned, despite his guest's discomfort. "Of course it is. I would rather be there than here. But Father prefers Gatchina over the noise and crowds of people at the capital." His blue eyes focused on hers. "Perhaps you will stay long enough to see it. I am sure that Mother would be pleased to return, and it gives us the perfect excuse to go before next winter."
"Indeed," George seconded his brother's proposal. "I prefer the noise and crowds myself than being in complete isolation here." He turned to his sister. "And you, Xenia? Which do you prefer?" Xenia only smiled, protectively cradling the porcelain doll within her tiny arms. "And she also agrees," the grand duke confirmed, then looked at Christine with hope. "Perhaps you are the one to give us that excuse, madam."
Christine blushed under George's confident scrutiny. "I somehow doubt that I could be a reason, your grace."
"Oh, come now, madam. Surely you realize that you have intrigued half of the court already. I have heard the servants say that you are the main reason anyone comes to call. Mother has to either accept or reject any further guests, and I cannot remember the last time that so many were in attendance here," George supplied with a convincing grin. "And I must say that strange fellow that accompanied you here also has the palace in quite a dither…"
"You mean Erik?" Christine's face turned pale as the words slipped silently into the vacant air.
George glanced at her agape expression and grinned. "So that's his name. I have not heard anyone say it to my knowledge. Everyone always calls him—" He stopped when Nicholas jarred him in the side. "What? It's true."
"From the servants' mouths, no doubt," Nicholas provided dryly. "You know that Mother and Father will be irate if they knew you were hanging on to every word of the unfounded gossip you hear," he scolded his brother silently, and whispered, "And you are also being inconsiderate to our guest."
The grand duke groaned at his brother's reprimand as he reluctantly turned to Christine. "I apologize, madam. That was rather rude of me. It will not happen again."
"It's quite all right," Christine murmured compassionately, the tangible forgiveness shown within her soothing words. "I am sure that my husband and I have disturbed the peace here."
"He's your husband?" George gasped. "I thought he was merely the other survivor. I did not realize…I thought that…My God, that is amazing!"
Christine stepped forward, trying to placate the boy's outrageous ravings. "He is my husband," she replied, convincing the bewildered boy with her gentle words. "Perhaps you would care to meet him?"
The grand duke's grin widened. "That would be wonderful, madam." He threw a wayward glance at his siblings. "Wouldn't it? I am sure Father will arrange a meeting, though he is always busy with the city Duma and other high-ranking officials of the court," he grumbled to himself, his eyes shifting from them to the hem of Christine's gown. "Yes, an audience with your husband would be grand, madam." His calculative gaze moved from the gown to her face, eyeing her with a pointed, quizzical stare. He watched her intake of breath, secretly knowing that he was upsetting her with his insolence. But he had to know…
"Madam, I must ask of you one more thing," George muttered noncommittally.
Christine's azure eyes questioned his. She considered his meaning, incredulous as to where this perverse conversation might lead. "Yes, your grace?" she asked cautiously, her wariness hidden with a false smile.
George merely stared at her, his dispassionate eyes boring into hers. After a moment of deliberation, he finally spoke. "Why does he wear it? What has he to hide from the rest of the world?" he questioned, not caring if he offended her with his blatant curiosity. "Madam, you must tell me. Why does he wear the mask?"
"George!" Marie's voice chimed in as she entered the chamber, her dark eyes solely upon her son. "I believe it is time for you and your brother to return to your studies. You have neglected them long enough. And take your sister to Olga upon your return."
"Yes, mother," Nicholas replied, taking Xenia by the hand. He glanced at his brother with what could be considered as pity until the sharp gaze of his mother prevented any further sympathy.
Marie escorted her children to the entranceway, her wordless speech to them—and to George in particular—created an expression of fear upon their gaunt faces. George paled under the empress' cold scrutiny, his brother firmly taking him by the arm before he could literally collapse on the floor.
Christine watched the scene with growing dismay, a small ounce of pity surmounting her innate dread. She realized that Marie's words were not kind, holding a dire warning and the promise of retribution before the sun died that day. The sin that had wrought such righteous anger was precipitated by the grand duke's brazen yet legitimate question.
"Why does he wear it?"
If he only knew why, Christine thought miserably. But she could never reveal the reasons as to why the man who posed as her husband wore the horrible cracked obstruction that shielded his face from the condemning eyes of the world. How could she explain to a child why Erik hid under a veil of obscurity, or why he desired to linger in the shadows that had comforted him throughout the endless years of his dark existence?
A deep, profound sense of pity overcame her, infusing her with another wave of guilt. Long ago, she felt the need to tell someone—anyone of what lay underneath the mask's broken surface. She had, in fact, revealed it, betraying Erik with her incoherent thoughts and debased fears.
But she was no longer that terrified girl on the roof, lamenting her sorrows to someone who could never understand the full magnitude of her plight. No, that child had died the night when she realized her dreams were nothing more than mere fragments of a faded desire that had perished long before she ever realized it. But where her childish soul had died, a woman who could see beyond the face of a monster, finding the man from within was inevitably born.
And although Erik kept his true self hidden under the imposing façade, Christine knew that his wretched deformity could no longer terrify her, for she no longer feared the physical ugliness that decayed the ingenious talent of the man who sought to destroy her. Nor could she find the strength to hate him for it.
"Christine, I apologize for my son's behaviour," Marie's docile voice asserted through the midst of Christine's disjointed conjectures, ignorant of the complicated metaphors and broken similes that pervaded the prima donna's current state of mind. She gave her guest a regretful look and said, "He is very curious about things he knows little of."
Christine turned to her, setting aside her mordant thoughts. "I understand," she demurred, adding, "People will always ask why my husband wears a mask. It is expected and cannot fully be avoided," her voice echoed, remaining distant, detached.
Marie slightly frowned at the cold words. "And that is something that I wish to discuss with you," she replied, not revealing the inner frustration and concrete embarrassment that George had unknowingly initiated through his damned curiosity. "Let us sit down then; I do not wish to discuss this matter in an uncomfortable manner," she offered with an imperious hand.
Silently obeying, Christine took a seat opposite the empress. She waited, patiently, for Marie to speak; ready to concede, and God help her, answer another bout of questions, which would undoubtedly be related to Erik. Her face remained impassive, listless. But despite her bravado, Christine could not find the means to excuse herself from the daunting presence of the immaculate empress. In truth, she was frightened by the prospect of confessing something in which she could never reveal, or even utter in half-spoken truths.
She would not betray Erik a second time, no matter the disapproval and heavy censure Marie would surely divulge. But her sacrifice, though small, was well worth the pain she would endure. It would prove her deep convictions to the anomalous man who, incredibly, haunted her mind with such a relentless persistence, compelling her to give in to his dark presence. And ironically, she surrendered herself each time to the foreboding manifestation within her mind.
But despite her atypical musings, Christine finally smiled, her lifeless face falling and shattering upon the cold stone floor. Her voice erupted from its silent prison, evoking words that had unfortunately died within it. "What was it that you wished to speak of, your highness?" she asked with an acute, penetrating gaze.
Marie returned Christine's avid stare. "Then we shall get to the heart of the matter, my dear," she idly mused, continuing without pause, "I know that many will ask, or at least wonder why your husband wears a mask that conceals the whole of his face." Marie's dark eyes stilled; becoming relentless as her refined words bespoke her concerns. "There is a reason why he wears it, and I will not ask you the purpose of his wearing it, nor will the rest of my family—or my guests—for the duration of your stay."
Christine gaped at Marie, utterly speechless. "Th—thank you, your highness," she muttered disjointedly.
Obsidian eyes cast aside the stifled appreciation. "Whatever he conceals, I am sure, is of great importance to him. I will not question it, Christine. Rest assured that this matter is concluded and will not be raised again." The empress vaguely smiled. "Besides, I find it somewhat intriguing to have a little mystery to a man that the court knows very little of."
"My husband is indeed a mystery to all," Christine enigmatically revealed, agreeing to Marie's mirthful statement.
"It seems that most men are, though many do not have that alluring fascination to them. My Sasha is physically imposing, yet holds a great deal of charm when he wishes to impart it upon someone." She laughed. "I am sure that even Victoria herself loathes being in his presence.
"But enough about our husbands," Marie said dismissively. "What did you think of them—my children?"
"They are wonderful, your highness—"
"Marie," the empress corrected.
"Marie," Christine repeated with abashed grace. "I enjoyed my time with them. Your sons entertained me while you were away. Your daughter remained silent, however. But I knew she enjoyed being with her brothers." Her eyes lightened, revealing the truth behind her words. "Thank you for introducing them to me."
"You may reconsider thanking me in the future, my dear," Marie asserted with a faint smile. "You will see a different side of them sooner or later." She chortled at the trivial statement. "They can be quite mischievous at times."
"It would be odd if a child was not," the prima donna returned. "I am sure I was the same at their age."
Marie laughed. "So was I. I am quite certain that I was the bane of my parents. And my poor sister..." She shook her head, recalling the many tragic moments she had with her sister. "It is surprising we survived each other's company. But marriage, it seems, separates families, scattering them to the four winds. It is rare that we see each other since she married Edward," she distantly mused, though her expression remained peaceful, serene. "But that is the way of things of things, is it not?
"Life seems so fleeting, so trivial that we mere mortals cannot even begin to understand its true meaning. It is a pity that many do not acknowledge that simple truth before it is too late," the empress continued with a sigh and looked considerately at Christine. "You seem lost in your own thoughts as well."
"It is nothing," Christine reassured her.
"Isn't it?" A dark brow arched in suspicion. "Nicky says the same thing, though he is not as convincing as you are," Marie stated with a furtive glance. "There are many facets to your character, Christine. But now that I think of it, you and your husband are an oddity among us, even if you do not realize it."
Christine paled as Marie dissected her like a decaying cadaver, inspecting the truth of what lay within the rotting flesh. The empress seemed to read Christine's thoughts with her dark obsidian eyes, as if seeing into her treacherous soul and knowing of the deception that festered within it.
But despite her inner vexations, Christine's expression remained nondescript, unfathomable. It was a pretense, of course, but one that worked its deceitful charm upon everyone who believed in her embellished fabrications of the truth. But would her deceptive art convince the empress as well? Inside, she believed that within time Marie would detect an irregularity in her words, putting the broken pieces of a disjointed puzzle back together.
Of course it was merely an irrational fear she had, conjured by a plausible outcome that would never happen. Erik assured her as much. And it was time, she realized, that she fully placed her faith—and life—in his hands, relinquishing any doubts or troubled fears that she had.
"Perhaps we are," Christine finally answered, masking her fears.
The empress smiled. "But that is what separates us, Christine. The Russian people have never been so captivated, so ardent in one thing since Catherine embellished the empire with her influence and Western ideologies. I also believe your coming here has influenced my children as well." Her face fell, revealing a hidden, secretive tension that was personified by a weary sigh.
"Is something wrong?" Christine was pressed to ask.
"Tell me, Christine. What did you think of my Nicky when you first met him?" Marie drew the question from the gauche tension between them.
Christine thought for a moment, her face a perfect illustration of silent study. She glanced at her gloved hands, then looked at the empress, the unsaid words reflecting within her eyes. "He was somber…like something had robbed him of any life that he once possessed." She stared plaintively at the empress, her eyes awash with tangible pity. "What happened to him?"
Marie's dark brows pursed together. "My son lost whatever innocence he had when his grandfather passed away." Her face became severe, distant. "The tsar was assassinated last winter. I am sure that you have heard about it. In any case, he was brought to the Winter Palace to die with his family by his side.
"I was ice-skating when it happened. One of the servants ushered me to the tsar's chamber where everyone hovered over him, all of their faces were grim, angered by what had happened. I did not have to ask whether he would survive or not, Sasha's forlorn expression confirmed my worst fears." Marie sighed heavily, as if trying to hold a small shred of dignity. "But it was nothing compared to my son's presence there. He watched as his grandfather took his final breath, dying on a set of bloodstained sheets. I have never seen such a horrid sight as the frozen expression upon my son's face…" A remorseful tear fell from an obsidian eye. "I honestly believed my son died with his grandfather died that day.
"Since then, I rarely see him laugh or smile." Marie's gaze turned pensive, thoughtful. "It surprised me to see him smile so freely today. I must thank you for that. I never realized that I could miss something so trivial as his smile."
"Of course, your—Marie," Christine was moved to say. "I am very sorry for your loss."
Marie wiped a cold tear away from a pale cheek. "You know, Christine. You are the first person to say that sincerely without being pressed to do so. I begin to wonder if you are truly who you present yourself to be…"
Dread clenched Christine's reserved heart as a thousand unnamed fears averted her gaze from the empress. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing," Marie said simply. "It was merely an expression, nothing more." She dismissed Christine with a jaded hand. "Now go, my dear. Ready yourself for this evening. We have much to look forward to tomorrow."
Without any objection, Christine removed herself from the empress' dire presence, silently questioning whether or not Marie realized how close to the truth she actually was.
…
Dinner that evening seemed to pass by without any conception of time. Lords and ladies took their usual role in the pursuit of gaining the attention of the tsar's newly favoured couple. Christine played the role of an infatuated wife while Erik's cold resolve remained fixed upon those who dared to seek an audience with them. All night, he had remained by her side, as if silently assuring her that he would not abandon her to such a frivolous hell. Her only gratitude for this kind gesture was the ever-present smile she bore. And although it seemed false, it remained sincere all the same.
But as the night drew on, Christine found no happiness in the redundant sea of awed faces, no elation in the blissful murmurs about Erik and herself. In truth, she discovered that she no longer wished to be a part of it. It was strange how her desire to grace the world with her presence now became an unending nightmare. Erik should have warned her that too much praise would inevitably destroy her.
And even now as she watched him from her silent vigil on the bed, she found an odd sense of comfort that she was not completely alone. Their launch would be held the following night, and the collection of hours before their fatal introduction seemed to pass by with relentless cruelty.
Christine instantly dismissed her tenuous fears, focusing more upon Erik's rigid form. The oddity in his erect posture had always intrigued her. For instead of hovering over his work, he would always remain upright, vertical. Even when he played the lulling, seductive music on his organ, his composure never failed him. It seemed that his disfiguration only ended at his face, not affecting the rest of his frail form.
Erik remained oblivious to her silent study of his person as she felt a slight sense of awe for the simplistic actions that he artfully performed. His hand, ungloved, moved deftly over a large expanse of paper. The delicate curves and straight lines his hand created were perfect, flawless.
She remembered seeing a few architectural designs in his home. Whilst he was playing Mozart for her one evening, she freely observed the small but lavish study of his. A few yellowed, wrinkled designs of the Opéra were carelessly stacked under a pile of leather-bound books.
She recalled her astonishment when she learned that he also aided in the construction of the Opéra. She had no doubt that Monsieur Garnier would have most likely depended upon Erik's ingenious talents. The man was an absolute prodigy. It was completely absurd that Erik would ever take an interest in her: a flawed, imperfect child who was barely legitimate in the ways of the world.
What possessed him to aid her when there were so many others more adept and better trained than she? Was it out of pity that he took her as his protégé, or for reasons more sinister? Erik's explanations of teaching her music were always vague. Sometimes she believed that she was nothing more than a living object to him, one that he could mold and build to perfection. One that he could not see as having flaws or was even relatively human.
Erik had always placed her as such. Why his reasons were, she did not know. But it was disturbing to think, or even consider that she was nothing more than a pretty lifeless object, an expensive trinket to display and carelessly flaunt to an ignorant multitude of unimpressed patrons. But even as his triumph was held in the sight all, Erik had inexorably taken away his success by abducting her. He would never realize, never know the damage he had wrought that ill-fated night…
Christine could still envision his infuriated words, his twisted face contorted into a mask of unrighteous anger. He had ripped away the hollow obstruction, revealing to her the inhuman rage that consumed his soul. It was apparent, even then, that he knew of her desire to leave him. Raoul's and the strange Persian's dark descent into Erik's subterranean lair had only fueled his hatred of her.
Would he ever forgive her, seeing that she never intended to hurt him? It seemed hopeless even now to consider it. The damage seemed irreversible, permanent.
And then dismal her thoughts abruptly stopped, shifting away from that wretched night and ironically turning to something even more terrible:
"What has he to hide from the rest of the world?"
George's words continued to torment her. All evening, she had endured the transitory fear of revealing her concerns to Erik. He would be livid if he knew that another wished to see the monstrosity that he carefully concealed.
A tear then fell from a distraught eye. She could never tell Erik of what had transpired between her and the royal children. It would be unwise to provoke his anger further…
"Christine," Erik's virulent words shattered the tranquil ambiance between them. "You may stop this pretense. I know that you are fully awake."
Sable brows pursed together in utter confusion. "How did you—"
"You're incessant gaze has not shifted from me since we retired from the tsar's company." He turned to her, abandoning his hastily sketched designs. "What troubles you so?"
Unable to bear his probing stare, Christine timidly glanced at the wrinkled coverlet, wiping away the cold tear. "It is nothing, Erik. I am merely tired."
"Tired?" he echoed, incredulous. "You were with me all evening. Not once did you feign a headache or any other ailment that women strangely possess." His yellow eyes gleamed with suspicion of the solitary tear. "I will have the truth from you before this night is over."
Christine finally turned to him, defeated. "I fear what will come of tomorrow, and the days following it," she finally spoke, her evasive words heavy with dismay. "It is something vague, unclear. And it will not depart from my mind."
Erik glared at her, unmoved by her words. "You speak in riddles, Christine," he muttered acerbically. "Do not twist your words with me," his voice lowered ominously. "Why are you crying?"
She said nothing, and in return she received a growing irritation that initiated itself within Erik's callous stare. Tense minutes passed between them like careless granules of sand through an hourglass.
Throughout dinner, he had felt her disturbing gaze upon him, and also the same, trivial smile that he abhorred. Christine remained by his side, nodding to other guests and gently trading words with a foray of faceless souls, all witless to the poisonous beauty before them. She had tainted them with the simplistic chatter that was native to them.
He despised her close proximity, hated how she clung so desperately to him. It was as if she believed that her admirers would tear her away from him, robbing her of the only solace she knew of. He remembered the look of desperation upon her pale face when he escorted her to the main foyer. It was same expression that he had seen many times before.
But why did it seem so different now? There was a change in Christine; the inner vexation she had for his cruelty had strangely departed from her, leaving only fragments of hidden despair.
Nevertheless, her smile and appreciative glances did not go unmarked by him. Christine's sudden change was monumental, unanticipated. He fully expected her to hate him to the end. He wanted her to hate him. What new madness possessed her naïve mind, making her believe in false aspirations? he wondered. Or was her fleeting appreciation nothing more than a ploy to escape him?
If it were the latter, then there would be hell to pay. He grew tired of her disturbing presence, despised how she lingered between his subconscious thoughts and reality. Always, he would think of her, the smile she freely gave him when she accepted his arm as he led her through a crowd of ever-watchful eyes. But of course it was nothing more than beautiful lie, contrived by their farce marriage.
And yet, it was a marriage that he accepted without question. If it were the only way to have Christine, making her suffer a lifetime with him, then he would endure her relentless insanity. He would indulge her madness by accepting the constant, fallacious human expressions that he once believed in.
Christine would never come to love him on her own free will.
And he could never find the means to return that false love.
Their marriage was one based on heaven and hell, where she, the beautiful seraph fell victim to his demonic voice, which had inescapably possessed her, tainting her with his unholy music. There would be no happy, blissful ending to their tragic story of love and betrayal. Angels and demons could never find a semblance of balance between their diverse worlds. And sadly, they, who were mere mortals yet so much more, would never fully reach an understanding. There would be no stalemate, no end to the dramatic war that was cruelly initiated the day they crossed paths.
They would be forever united, yet eternally apart.
It was a bitter irony, one in which Erik fully came to acknowledge. And so, he looked at her once more, staring at his lifeless creation, her dull eyes listless as she returned his stare. The beautiful ebony tendrils that now cascaded against her ashen flesh began to lull him to her side. And yet, his sanity intervened. He remained seated, adamant in his strength against her unvoiced plight.
Christine was truly beautiful when distraught, the ivory shift that covered her pale flesh was an unwelcome invitation. She seduced unseen angels with her artful despondency and tormented visible demons by enticing them with her infinite sadness.
Erik, however, was not swayed.
"Christine," his voice echoed without remorse. "I am waiting…"
The immobile creation turned to her master, her dull gaze settling disturbingly upon him. "My tears are no concern to you, Erik," her hollow voice faded into the darkness. "Why do you insist to torment me with something you care nothing for?"
Erik's hideous eyes raked over her wilting figure, understanding finally reaching the tawny depths. Christine's voice was guarded, shielding some unknown truth from him. "They are a concern to me, Christine," he said after timeless deliberation. "I will not have a sobbing wife." His hellish gaze moved sharply over her flaccid form. "You would do well to remember that I abhor such weakness."
Weakness…
Christine reluctantly dismissed his spiteful censure. "The empress wishes me to meet her newest guests tomorrow evening before our launch into society," she muttered, silently praying that her answer would appease him.
"And that has upset you?" He looked at her, nonplussed. "That is a legitimate reason, my dear, but not the cause of your tears." His yellow eyes seared her flesh with silent derision. "No more evading, Christine; I desire the truth."
"Why?" she asked weakly, another barrier breaking from her battle-worn composure. "What does it matter, Erik?"
The expressionless mask questioned her, its mute inquisition unsettling. Finally, the voice behind the cracked obstruction spoke: "You are my wife, Christine," it replied with abject certainty. "You will keep no secrets from me. A dishonest wife displeasures her husband." Erik's words became meaningful, threatening. "You know this. Now tell me, wife. What is the true plight behind your tears?"
A look of utter loss tainted her face with damaged pride. "Will you promise me something, Erik?" Her azure eyes pleaded beyond the broken façade, innately giving in to his desire. "If I tell you, will you promise me that you will not be angry?"
"You know that I make no promises, Christine," he reminded her, the impassive mask mirroring his frozen words.
"I know." She looked away from him, defeated by his callous scrutiny. Her hands moved to cover her face, masking it. "I will tell you," she murmured dejectedly, not noticing her tormentor rise from his dark throne, his oppressive shadow lingering over her.
"Tell me, Christine," he seemed to whisper, his ominous presence shattering her remaining strength. "What is this secret you fear to share with me?" he posed, lightly tracing over her wayward curls.
Christine inwardly flinched at his gentle touch. "Erik," she murmured, her hands unwillingly falling away from her tearstained face.
An adulterous hand moved deeper into the dark mass, its inquisitive fingers probing the silken wisps of midnight. "Tell me, mon ange," his voice murmured into her ear. "Your fear will subside once you give in to me."
A weary sigh escaped her as she felt the skeletal digits question her afflicted mind. The icy touch of his flesh against her scalp released her hidden tension, concerns, and fears. Giving in to him now would cease this unending torment, and he would recede from his imposing stance, leaving her to her solace once more.
"Someone else has asked why you wear the mask," she admitted with utter remorse.
His dark ministrations on her hair stopped, his hand falling away from her. Christine watched him move to the window, his abrupt disinterest in her hair strangely upsetting her. A harsh silence ensued until he turned to her, the cold mask asking her one question: "Who?"
"It was…" Christine paused, debating whether or not to reveal the name.
"Christine," he prompted her. "You will tell me."
"It was the grand duke," she muttered in a docile voice, her face beseeching his. "Erik, he only wanted to know why. Please, do not—"
"Did you tell him?" he interjected, unconcerned about her present worry.
Christine pulled herself away from the bedraggled sheets. Crossing over to Erik, she placed a confident hand on a glass pane. "No," she confessed, the truth revealed within her pale expression. "I would never—you must believe me, Erik. I never told him…" Her frown deepened. "I could never do that to you…"
"You did once…" Erik reflected with cold apathy. "And now you fear that I might exact revenge upon a child?" he questioned her. "Don't be simple, my dear. People will always ask that question. It is inescapable. Why did you fear to tell me?"
"I did not wish to anger you," she sobbed.
Erik glared at his farce wife. "I would not be as foolish as to harm a child, especially one from the royal throne. Such actions would prove to be rather dire for us." An ungloved hand lifted her downcast chin, compelling her to look at him. "Now rest, Christine. Erase this unnecessary worry from you mind."
Before she could utter another word Erik turned away from her, returning to his abandoned designs. Inwardly disappointed, she obeyed him, claiming the neglected marriage bed once more for herself, and vaguely realized that her silent footfalls and the rustle of sheets confirmed his suspicions: she was yet again doing his will, submitting to his unholy desires.
She felt his crooked smile under the mask, the twisted grin pleased with her reluctant obedience. It was strange how she could captivate a room full of besotted fools yet could not hold a single argument with him. His reluctant captive turned wife was enigmatic, pleasing to him in a way. She silently wondered if their arrangement would prove the test of time.
It had to, for he would never let her go. Not even after death would she be free of him. And as she silently thought upon these disheartening conjectures, Erik hummed a silent, soothing melody to coerce her to sleep. Christine fought the lulling composition with a weakened front until she fell completely under its hypnotic spell, the promise of sleep freely given to her as she drifted into a comatose state; the last tangible memory she had before surrendering was the alluring sound of Erik's placating voice.
…
Author's Note: Well, I suppose that is chapter nine—quite a long one, too. I honestly tried to cut it, but there were so many things that I could not leave out. Also, this will probably be the last time I will focus on Mina; she will silently go into the background of this story. I just needed to express her character one more time before doing so. As for the royal children, I hoped everyone liked them. They were fun to write about, and quite a challenge as well. But I found it to be somewhat important. It answers one question where there will always be speculation behind Erik's mask.
I also realize that this chapter might have been a little boring. I am very sorry about that. I know the plot of this story seems to be going absolutely nowhere. But in truth, it is. It is just taking me a long time to get there because there are two conflicts in this story: a minor one and a major one. The minor one has been alluded to in this chapter and will definitely be seen in the next. As for the major, it will also be introduced in the next chapter. After introducing them, I believe this story will go relatively fast. It is my hope, anyway. :)
With all of that said, I will continue onto the questions:
JenniferJ, Erik is very intelligent. But the man is also very stubborn. Um…I don't know if I will be giving away any spoilers or not by saying this but I believe that Christine's will and determination will begin to make his convictions in her alleged part in the assassination falter. He will be begin to question whether he is right or not in this story. It may be a while before it happens, though. I think he has a lot to sort out before forgiving her… Hopefully, it will not be too late:)
lauranonymous, Glad you like the story! To answer your question, the spelling of "czar" or "tsar" can go either way. I used to spell it "czar" but I found that I liked the other way better. It was something about the silent T. I think many native Russians spelled it with a T instead of a C. As for the rest of the Western world, I think spelling it with a C is more common. It's odd how countries will spell things so differently…
Loveroftrapdoors, You are right: Tori Amos is awesome! Unfortunately, I do not have any of her CDs right now. I may break and get one sometime. There are many bands that have inspired me to write this, mainly VAST and Evanescence. I will say that many gothic and rock bands have also added to the strange foray of inspiration that I have. It's odd... (Laughs.)
AleanShadow, thank you! If you ever want me to help you with a story, let me know. I would be honoured to help or make any suggestions for it:)
Venus725, Thanks, I am happy you like the story! And no, I haven't seen the film yet. I plan to rent it when it comes out so I can cry and rant in the privacy of my own home without people sending me to a mental institution for a display of public insanity… I wouldn't put it past anybody. :) (Grins.)
Also, one more note. Everyone, please do not think I am bashing the film. I seriouslyam not. I just wanted to see the siren and Erik drown someone… I will watch it with an open mind, and Ican also cry without people thinking I am crazy because I know that Erik will not have Christine in the end. (Sniffs.) I am sure it's great. I've seen screenshots/pictures and it does look good, so I will see it. And gladly, too!
Everyone, thank you so much again for the reviews, comments, questions, opinions, e-mails, and everything I have received thus far! Truly, all of you are one of the main reasons why I try to write and post this! And also, I am deeply considering on writing a short one-shot story that is somewhat of a prequel to this as an appreciation for all of you taking the time read this! I really want to thank all of you in some way. :)