Salut!
Oh, I am so glad that you liked my last chapter. I felt rather mischievous playing out the Phantom's story as I did, but he did say to follow closely to my sources. I am not sure he is aware, however, of all my sources. It is a pity the latest letter from Monsieur O.G. does not hold quite the amusement of your reviews. He seems to think that I am out to sabotage him by removing his shadowy image and innate fear-inducing ways. I simply am recording what I know, monsieur.
Ah well, I must continue to fill my writing duties. I pray that you will continue to enlighten me as to your opinions and ideas.
To clarify a bit, this chapter alternates between Cecily, who is in the waking world, and Erik, who is dreaming. By the end both are awake. Each section is separated by dashes. I hope that clears up any confusion that this choppy writing may have caused.
Until we next meet,
S.R.
---
Cecily woke first the next morning. Her side ached dully, but she gritted her teeth and forced her feet to the floor. She would be damned if she couldn't put aside pain anymore. She crossed the room toward her dress to restore her modesty, but her eyes caught Erik's sleeping form, and she paused by the edge of the bed. In his sleep, his thin body was relaxed, the tenseness of its waking hours dissipated in the peace of slumber. His face, or rather the half of it she could see, held few of the lines that it did in waking. The corners of her mouth turned up as she watched his hand reach blindly out for hers, only to retreat again when it did not find it. "Oh, Erik," she murmured.
Her hand dropped own to his cheek and hovered just above it. The rumor circulating among l'Opéra's staff was that the face hidden by that scrap of leather was so hideous that grown men would shriek if they saw it. However, she had also heard that no one had ever removed the mask, so she wasn't sure of the accuracy of the first piece of gossip. Of course, it was l'Opéra Populaire's grapevine she was picking from. She looked back down at her hand near his face. What did he look like behind the mask? Was he really as bad was said? She bit her lip in agonizing indecision.
---
Erik's dream was a strange, Kafkaesque blend of worlds. His mind raged against the gypsy cage that held it, and his breathing quickened in anticipation of the murder that he would soon commit. There was no comfort in this twisted world he lived in. Everywhere he went to find consolation, the hands drew away, unable to feel compassion for such a monstrous thing. He couldn't stand it any longer! That mangy cur of a gypsy deserved what was coming to him. The rope around his wrists burned the open wounds caused by the constant chafing of the bindings. He would make that villain feel the torture of this rope.
He listened as the door to his cage was opened and closed. He turned and leapt upon his tormentor, the cord wrapped tight around the gypsy's neck. He was blind with rage and vengeance. He ignored the muffled cries for help as the struggle ensued. It was a single word that froze him in place.
"Erik!" His captor had never before used his given name. Not only that, but the voice was strangely feminine. He looked down at his prey, the awkward boyish hands of only a moment before having become the lithe fingers of a grown musician. His hands pulled away and the makeshift noose fell heavily to the floor.
She was crying silently, the marks on her neck swollen and angry. Her eyes met his, and a sensation that he had never before known began to creep through him. He fought it with all his strength. It seemed to him as if she was suffocating him with this new feeling, and he would not give in. His eyes met hers again, and he felt a thick, leaden knot settle in the base of his stomach. He writhed in anguish, unable to break away from her gaze. She advanced slowly, her eyes matching every bit of intensity in his.
He shuddered as her hand rose up to his mask. His stomach lurched when he realized what she was doing. She would rip it from him, taking with it every ounce of dignity he had. He tried to escape her infuriatingly open gaze, her prying hands, but those eyes would not let him move. Her hand moved over the molded leather that covered his face, testing the edges. He wanted to scream at her to do something, anything! Anything would be better than this endless torture. Would she remove it and scream, the sound shattering his heart and soul? He closed his eyes against her stare. He felt her hand pause at the corner of his mask and braced himself for the inevitable.
---
"Oh, Erik," she murmured, running her hand down his jaw.
---
His eyes shot open. The unforgiving glare that had been in her eyes had been replaced by something he had no experience with. Allowing himself to give in to the exhaustion threatening to consume him, he fell to the ground, the conscious world vanishing to him.
---
Cecily stood for another long moment, taking in his dreaming face. She had abandoned her attempt to unmask the Phantom, for she knew now that was who he was. Her finger had run tentatively over his jaw, drawing them away from the mysterious mask. For once, she had subdued her curiosity. She had known that she could not repay his generosity and kindness, no matter their motive, with such a thoughtless act.
She pulled back her hand was beginning to walk away when he spoke. "Do you always stand above other people while they sleep?" His eyes opened slowly, taking in everything in the room. His tone was mocking. It was uncomfortable for him, like a suit that didn't fit. She realized he must not have had anyone to laugh with in a very long time. He was taking surprisingly well to humor, but the hardness remaining in his voice reminded her of his isolation and hostility.
"No, I do not, monsieur," she muttered turning hurriedly away to prevent him from seeing the blush creeping up her neck.
She heard him sit up. "Good morning, Cecily. How are you feeling today?"
She opened her mouth to tell him she was feeling quite well, but suddenly remembered that she was to leave that day. She thought of the bustling world above, of its loud, hurried people with constant obligations and plots. Of its blaring noise and garish light. Of the smells and the sights and the sounds and the tastes. Her stomach growled quietly at the thought of food. It had been three days and she had eaten only a little bread. It was as if she had forgotten to eat in the constant adventure of trying to stay sane in the depths in which she now stood.
She thought of the world she had stumbled upon so unknowingly. Of the man who had saved her from death and fates worse than that. Of his music that cascaded through his home, a place that he had more or less opened up to her. Of the stories and knowledge that were contained within its walls.
She turned and looked at Erik, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was casting her a wary look, but one of genuine concern was directly behind it. His hands were still bound, and he looked rather like a lost child. She bit the inside of her lip. "I am not as well as I had hoped."
He stood and approached her, his eyes glued to the spot where he knew the wound was. "Does it hurt greatly?" He placed his hand lightly against the bandages. She drew in a sharp breath. He pursed his lips in concentration. "Perhaps I should check it. I thought that had provided for a quicker recovery…" His brow furrowed in thought, and she remained silent before him. "Change back into the shirt and breeches I gave you for now. I will change the bandage and ensure that the stitching still holds. Then we will see."
He left her to change, and Cecily reflected on what she had just done. She felt well enough when she had risen, but when he asked her, there was a powerful nausea that overcame her. She removed the nightgown and slid into the shirt and breeches that were still lying on a chair. Perhaps she would return to the surface tomorrow.
