Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.
The Mask's Lament.
Chapter Thirteen.
The faint traces of the dying sunlight fell heavily against the glass windowpanes, penetrating them with a blinding intensity that made all within its path flinch from its callous beams. A myriad of colours poured in through the transparent panes, embellishing the room with its overstated light.
But in spite of the harsh radiance it imparted, its daunting effect did not go unappreciated. Christine, though squinting against its blinding rays, smiled as the light fell against her, warming her soul from the many months of cold isolation.
A semblance of life had finally returned to the barren Russian landscape, giving it the promise of a temporal existence before winter settled upon its rugged terrain once more. Spring had finally established itself upon the vast empire, ravishing it with the glorious splendour of a new life.
A new life…
Christine slightly frowned at the thought. It was difficult to believe—or even imagine—that her life, which was once considered ordinary, almost pedestrian, could change so dramatically within such a small amount of time. In truth, she felt as if she were living another life, her former one discarded, irrelevant to her now.
Becoming the bride of an architect whose talents spanned across the limitless borders of the infinite had almost diminished the remainder of the child who lived solely for music and music alone.
For as each day passed, Christine lost another piece of the simple existence she once cherished. Even being within the presence of Erik, she could not detain the feelings of despair that would, at times, consume her. She was beginning to lose herself, as she was no longer Christine Daaé, but Christine Daaé-de Maricourt—her true surname never used in the presence of the court, or even in private, for that matter—the bride of the tsar's new favourite.
And as such, she remained with him, the ever-faithful bride of a man who sought reason to hide his face from the world. Erik's true nature would always be concealed under the mask whose faded porcelain and rigid cracks could only emit the fallacious image that many undoubtedly had within their minds.
Women were awed by his presence, as men were no less daunted by the imposing manner that completed such an enigmatic figure. It was like staring at a nameless shadow, the mystery and fear it evoked only leaving the thrilling, yet enticing, feeling of dread as all stared upon the shrouded being.
And so, it had remained as such for the past few months. Even as spring brought life once more to the cold, dismal halls of the Gatchina Palace, the overlaying sense of dismay melded itself among the illustrious domain of the empire.
That dismay, though at times ambiguous, left only the shattered remnants of an unattainable release that she so desperately sought. It seemed as if the world itself was on fire, where she could only watch it seethe and smolder from a helpless distance. The ill-fated meeting with a devil had caused her present pain, her new dilemma threatening to overcome her with each passing day.
For as the weeks passed, she and Erik attended many soirees and parties given by the supreme benefactors of society. It was out of obligation, only—the autonomy and freedom of choice inevitably taken away from them.
And though it did not concern Erik that he had a massive congregation observing him with curious and appalled stares, it unnerved Christine. At times, she would almost abandon all thoughts of courtesy and polite etiquette, just to mutter how much she loathed being within their presence. She inwardly despised how they could maneuver their way around, subtly showing their veiled disgust of a couple not borne of their class.
She had witnessed it many times, especially during the outing the Baroness Pavlov invited them to. The Lady Ekaterina, though vaguely seen in the company, had glared at her during the interval, her icy gaze never moving from its fixed position.
Nevertheless, there were other concerns—more important and less trivial—that her unease with the Lady Ekaterina was a minor problem. After her meeting with the oldest of the Descanov clan, Christine found that at every meeting or party she attended, she would see the Lord Drazlovsky.
During the first few gatherings Christine stayed by Erik's side, never leaving him as she helplessly fell victim to the cold stare of another. Overlying senses of guilt moved over her during these unnerving times, for she could not—would not—tell Erik about the probing stares she received. It was difficult not to confide in him, but she inwardly knew that he would react in a violent manner, where someone would undoubtedly lose his head over the infraction.
In truth, Christine knew Erik was a jealous man, even when he despised her; he refused to allow her any privacy with another man. It went against everything he said to her, but also reflected the possessive nature that made him so inherently unique.
She frowned at the memory of it. Had it only been last night that such an instance occurred? Her frown deepened and the invisible lines on her forehead furrowed as the memories overcame her present thoughts…
The spring cotillion that the Lady Lomonosov—apparently a descendent of the infamous literary giant—graciously held with the incentive of having the most memorable fête of the season. A wealth of the highest names in the Russian court—and also a few notable figures from various provinces—attended without hesitation. And although the tsar and his family made themselves scarce, his new favourites, Monsieur and Madam de Maricourt, attended in the imperial family's stead.
The harrowing plea upon Marie's pallid face had all but coerced Christine in accepting the lady's invitation. Truly, it was becoming more difficult to refuse or even reject any request offered. And to her eternal dismay, Christine found that she was becoming too wary of drawing so much attention to herself.
It was not because she did not wish to be seen, or share in any entertainment, but rather the desire to disappear from the unfriendly eyes that viewed her so callously. She felt as if the prying stares were only focused on her and never upon Erik; that for some unknown reason her presence both disturbed and caused trepidation in the lives of the courtiers, especially for those who dared to look upon her.
For it was within the ninth hour, that her true fear revealed itself at last…
A bout of laughter drew itself around the wondrously-lit ballroom as dancers pirouetted themselves across the dance floor. Like graceful ballerinas, they made no sound, only their movements and theirs cast shadows against the immaculate ivory walls revealed any sign that they moved at all.
Christine watched this in growing fascination, vaguely recalling similar movements from the Corps de Ballet. She slightly frowned from the recollection, as an onslaught of old memories, most too painful to recall, came to mind. In her sadness, she did not notice the graceful movements of the dancers, or even the abrupt absence of her husband.
She did not feel the temporal distortion as Erik left her side, some inquisitive lord taking him to the other half of the room, only to be in the company of other lords as curious as the first.
The revelers who attended the cotillion did not only spread the latest rumours that derived from the capital, but also divulged in other pleasantries, such as the newest premiere opera at the Marinsky or how the city duma would see to the new state laws, issued by the tsar himself.
There were many such officials in attendance tonight, Christine thought as she glanced at the staid figure of Erik whose imposing cloak graciously draped itself across the marble floor like a swathe of ebony velvet. No one seemed to take notice of his daunting presence, however, only those attention within the small circle around him seemed to invoke any true response from Erik. Even the young Vásya Sokólov, a new member of the Court of Justice, held the look of intrigue as Erik spoke, answering the myriad of questions asked of him.
His overwhelming image only furthered his insipid responses as many hastily drew themselves away from him, apparently making excuses of previous engagements, even the lord who introduced Erik to his circle could only withstand such a disheartening figure for so long before making the apologetic excuse to leave.
Christine slightly smiled, inwardly applauding Erik for his ability to intimidate people. His social skills, though highly refined, could only extend the comfort of others for only a short amount of time before they found it imperative to escape such cold indifference, for in truth, Erik had the power and grace to reduce even kings and emperors to mere peasants. Even she felt below him at times…
Her smile faded as the dark thoughts of doubt caused her ebony brows to crease in apparent consternation. Would Erik always consider her to be below him, as nothing more than an object to criticize and demean? Or would he see that she was his equal—in all ways—and accept her as he once had? Even more, would he ever forgive her for the pain she had caused him? If only she could erase those times she had spurned him, feared him for her life…If only…
A shadow moved across her vision, disrupting her thoughts. Christine looked away from the tiled floor as she noticed a dark cape move before her. Her eyes moved upward, as utter disappointment overcame her from the sight.
"My Lord Drazlovsky," Christine bowed to the silent figure.
"Madam de Maricourt," he returned, taking her hand and placing a light kiss upon her gloved knuckles. "Are you well this evening?"
"Yes, I am, my lord. I trust that you are in good health, as well?" she asked with a forced smile, subtly releasing her hand from his.
His silver eyes riveted over her. "Indeed I am, madam. Though I believe I would be in much better spirits if you joined me on the balcony. The stars are rather inviting this night, and I would be loath to view them alone…"
Christine stiffened at his words, inwardly refusing to follow him. "But, my lord—"
"But nothing, Madam de Maricourt," he muttered under his stale breath, his dull eyes bidding her to be silent. "You have been abandoned by everyone, and I told you that we would meet again. Would you dare show disrespect to one who only desires to make your acquaintance?" Seeing her firm expression waver, he continued. "I only wish to befriend you. I would never harm you. Please…" He extended his free hand to the closed set of French doors.
With a moment's hesitation, Christine nodded and accepted his invitation, vaguely noticing the stares she received as she walked into the shadows and the darkness of the night.
Her slow movements went unheeded as she blindly followed the Lord Drazlovsky onto the balcony, her mind slightly fixed upon the thoughts that pervaded the oblivious crowd inside. It was difficult to believe that she would become the center of such madness. Like dancing on a precipice she had come dangerously close to the edge, almost falling to her doom. The foreshadowing of such an unwanted fate burned within the back of her mind—the idea of surviving was merely an illusion, brought on by her naïve hopes. She could not escape the cruelty within this new being, as she could not escape Erik.
And with this, she turned to him, eyeing him with hidden suspicion. "My lord," she began, but instantly felt his fingers fall across her lips, quietly silencing her.
"Say nothing," the guttural voice answered as the stillness of the night fell deftly against them. A moment passed before he spoke once more, his dark words only a gentle whisper. "The silence becomes you, dear lady." His eyes bore into hers, as if compelling her to understand his meaning. "And yet your voice…" His words diminished into the dark nothingness that surrounded them.
Christine's dark brows pursed together. "My voice?" she whispered under his gloved fingers.
Silver eyes stared at her, their metallic depths weighing the validity within her words. "I have never heard anything so divine, madam. You could envy the sirens themselves with both your voice and your beauty."
"My lord, please," Christine murmured, taking a cautious step away from him. "I feel…rather uncomfortable with these settings. Please, I must return—"
"—To your adoring crowd?" An ashen brow rose in question. "Or to your husband?" he asked with a profound deftness that unnerved her.
"Please." Christine turned away from him, adamant to leave to return to the safety she found inside, to the safety she found in Erik. "I must return."
A strong hand prevented her from leaving. "You will not be missed," the rigid words echoed in cold assurance, but lightened when he said, "Come. I wanted to share the stars with you. I would show dishonour if I did not fulfill my word to you."
Despite the show of his alleged dishonour, Christine persisted in returning. "My lord, I cannot—"
"Bastien. My name is Bastien," he repeated, then added, "I would hope that you would show me the courtesy of using my Christian name instead of my title."
"But—"
"And I would return that courtesy and call you by your given name." He took her hand in his, ignoring the silent tremors it emitted. "Please, I implore that you do me this one honour."
Christine frowned, not knowing how to refuse him. She gently sighed, giving in to his desire with a reluctant nod.
"Very good," he commended her, then turned to the stars. He said nothing for a moment, only looked at the myriad spheres of light, his hand clasping tightly around hers. "Do you see that cluster of stars, there?" He pointed with a gloved finger. Seeing her nod, he continued. "That is the constellation Draco, and this…" His finger moved to a lower, more obscure constellation. "…Is Andromeda—the chained lady of the skies."
"It is beautiful," Christine found herself say, as her eyes widened in wonder. How long had she been within out the gentle confidence of the stars? All she had ever known—upon her arrival at the Opéra—was darkness and fear.
"Indeed it is," Bastien replied, his attention fixed once more upon her awed features. "Do you know the story behind them?"
"No. I am afraid that I do not," Christine answered, her eyes moving away from the stars and onto him. "Will you tell me?"
"If you wish," was his gentle reply. "The story of these constellations is part of the Grecian mythologies, handed down from generation to generation." He paused before his words deepened into a more acute tone. "Andromeda was the daughter of Cephus and Cassiopeia, a royal family that served the gods without fault, and consequently, blessed for their devout faith in them.
"But despite this, not all creatures adhered to the gods' commands, and one day when the Princess Andromeda ventured into the palace gardens, she caught the attention of the hideous creature Draco. It is said that his cold heart melted at the sight of her—for her beauty was incomparable, even the goddesses themselves envied her.
"Draco found that he could not live without such beauty, for his existence was dark and dreaded, as he obscured himself from the world and life itself. In his desire, he was determined to have Andromeda, no matter the consequence."
Bastien paused, and Christine held her breath. He slightly smiled at her visible show of interest. "He almost succeeded. However, the gods prevented his abduction of her, and placed her in the heavens, away from Draco. They chained her to the skies, forever bound to the beauty that surrounded her. And though she was imprisoned, the gods took pity upon her loneliness and placed her parents there as well, so they could be with her for eternity."
Christine frowned at the sudden end of the story. "But what became of Draco?" she asked, her expression revealing slight disappointment. "What did the gods do to him?"
Bastien remained silent, staring at her with a bland expression. After a long interval of silence, he answered her, "They placed him in the heavens as well. He is close to his Andromeda, however Cephus and Cassiopeia permanently separate him from her. They are, in a sense, together, yet forever divided by the will of the gods."
"I see," Christine muttered despondently, then looked at Bastien. "And so it is one of the more pleasant myths."
"Not all stories have a tragic ending," he gently chided her. "As you see, the beauty prevailed in this story, defeating the creature that would take her into his dark world and inevitably destroy her."
"Perhaps," she returned. "And yet, I see only the overall dominance and the unneeded intervention by the gods. The lack of compassion in this myth is so callous that it is almost sickening."
Bastien glanced at her, his gaze almost unearthly. "And why do you think that? Why take pity upon a creature that is both hideous and cruel, and then demean the justifications of the gods themselves?"
Christine looked at him, hesitated, then shook her head. "I do not know. It feels…wrong somehow. I cannot explain it, for I do not know why I would take pity upon such a creature. It is only that not all things that are rendered hideous are cruel."
"Touché." Bastien smirked. "However, in most cases, they are. Beauty and perfection was both prized and praised among the Greeks. It is the decay and destruction of the world that causes true pain.
" We are chained, not to the heavens, but to our own destinies." His hand fell against her cheek as he whispered, "Are you chained, Christine?"
Her eyes widened, the subtlety of his meaning falling cruelly upon her. Did he suspect? No. He could not, her mind reasoned. No one knew—no one would ever know. And with this in mind, she tried to pull away from him. "I must return now," she murmured, despairing in her useless attempts to be free of his concrete hold.
She sighed in despair as her eyes closed in apparent defeat. No one would come to her aid, not this time. Her frail figure weakened as Bastien's grasp intensified. He would not allow her to leave, not until he—
"Christine!"
The unyielding grip on her hand fell away as her name echoed into the night. She opened her eyes with the realization that someone had come for her. Her distress dissipated, only to be replaced with utter calm as she gazed upon the man who saved her.
Erik was here.
"Erik," Christine said, her expression conveying a sense of irreproachable relief. But regardless of her momentary happiness, she felt the cold sensation of anger within his golden eyes. The yellow orbs seethed with an all-too-familiar emotion that bordered upon fury.
With this knowledge, Christine noticed him move toward her, his movements graceful, intentional. A gloved hand pulled her to his side, its belligerent hold moving inexorably around her rigid waist. She felt herself slightly gasp from his touch, the feeling of an innate possessiveness taking hold of her senses. Erik was displeased; that was a certainty, she dismally concluded as his gloved, skeletal fingers pressed heavily upon her waist.
A cold and resolute silence lingered between them as the soft strains of a Russian waltz lightly echoed from the ballroom. The music, though almost inaudible, was disregarded—the concrete stares emitted from both men remained, however, their metallic gazes locked, brooding with the silent promise of war.
Christine watched the bitter, silent mêlée between them. It was an apocalyptic battle between two foes as gold and silver clashed within the darkness, the luminous, unnatural glow of their eyes held an almost macabre appeal that silently lured her to watch with growing dismay.
But just as the unspoken animosity began it also ended with the same, unintentional throw of resentment. "Ah, you must be Monsieur de Maricourt," Bastien spoke at last, bowing with a severe certainty that even made angels shudder. "It is a pleasure to meet to you at last. I am Lord Drazlovsky."
Erik inclined his head slightly, the hood of his cloak gently moving forward.
An emotion akin to intrigue flashed within the Russian's pale eyes. "I have heard of your many talents, monsieur. It seems that the tsar is impressed by your various…skills." His unwavering grin added volumes to his blithe comment. "And as well he should. The court has been a bit…mundane since the previous tsar sadly deprived us of his company…"
"Indeed." Erik's yellow eyes hardened to a brilliant shade of molten amber, the center of the irises brimming with untouchable crimson flecks of ire. His devil's stare remained upon the indifferent lord, as if silently challenging him to utter another foolish word.
However, to Erik's disappointment, his opponent remained silent, wise in the conscientious notion of holding such a blasphemous tongue. Erik eyed the man briefly, then turned his insightful stare upon Christine. "It is time we depart," he muttered softly, meaningfully.
Christine nodded at this, a gentle sigh escaping her when Erik led her away from the balcony. Her eyes hesitantly turned to look at the man who spurred Erik's wrath, his silvery gaze remaining disturbingly upon her. She shuddered inside, her heart quavering with an unnamable fear that almost overtook her.
And though she desperately wished to blame her worry upon the Lord Drazlovsky, she knew that she could not, for it was her saviour that inspired the fear, as his skeletal fingers wrapped tightly around her captive waist, mutely making her aware of the displeasure she had wrought within him…
The memory faded from Christine's mind as the bitter remnants of it caused a sad and overwrought sigh to escape her. Erik had not spoken to her since then, even the lonely carriage ride to the palace was engulfed in a dismal silence that seemed to saturate the very air they breathed with unfettered indignation.
Her head began to ache from the frustration and dreaded anticipation of what was to come. Erik would return from his many long hours of entertaining the tsar with his genius and chastise her—as his firm hold upon her waist had promised the night before—the dark, uncontrolled passion within his touch only initiated a cold forewarning of his growing anger. As if he were the beautiful personification of Vesuvius before it destroyed the oblivious Pompeii.
And like the ill-fated city, she, too, would feel the wrath of a god. Erik would never forgive her for such a transgression, his pride and anger would never allow it.
With this in mind, she turned away from the window and seated herself before the antique vanity. Her dull eyes looked at the pale reflection, noticing the lifeless creature within its mirrored surface. She looked the like the bride of a groom, long dead and decayed by the wear of time.
Her dark hair remained in its cheerless foray of pins and fastenings until she removed them with the careless grace of one disillusioned by the conventional beauty that society deemed apposite to the rash disarray her hair now lay in—the lifeless ebony strands languidly falling against her neck and shoulders until they disappeared behind, overlaying their silken tresses over her bare flesh.
She slightly grimaced at her attire. Though the sleeveless nightdress was crafted in pure satin, it was not one of the many garments she so carefully selected from the myriad of dressing gowns and other intimate attire. The beautiful skein of satin had unfortunately found itself within her order, carelessly cast aside and misplaced for her to discover.
It discouraged her upon finding it, but much to the pleadings of Mina, she had reluctantly kept it safely hidden under the rest of her gowns. She would not consider even wearing it had it not been for the delay of her laundered clothing. It seemed that, as fate would have it, she would be reduced to wear this scanty garb until one more suitable, and more importantly, modest could replace it.
She sighed, looking at the gown. Flowers, more of a darker shade of ivory, were engraved upon the fine satin as a line of pearl-encrusted beads lined its rim. The corset-styled top fitted her to absolute perfection, its coarse, yet flexible, mold allowed her to move without restraint as the rest trailed off in a cascade of ivory satin.
At a distance one could almost consider it a gown made for a royal intrigue. Its classic style almost held an enticing, decadent nature that befitted the truest paramour. Mistresses of the first water would be compelled to commit murder for such a gown.
And it was at this thought that Christine questioned what she was becoming. Was she turning into something that was not herself—something that she could no longer identify or recognize? She knew her appearance was frail, if not fragile. But to lose herself altogether…It was impossible to even fathom…
Christine looked away from the mirror, closing her eyes as the remote sense of pain entered her mind. Twilight was upon the horizon, she realized as her abject gaze slowly turned to the window. The sun had already set, a dense cloak of stars following its daily demise. Very soon he would be here. And then there would be hell to pay…
The silence that followed left only the abstemious trepidation that seemed to linger and penetrate the very walls with its ominous tidings. Christine waited, the grave anticipation slowly consuming her to the point of self-despair. She feared what was to come.
An hour passed without fault—thirty-six hundred seconds of madness given within that allotted time—moved, transcending throughout the forgotten hours and moments that seemed to fade into a lifeless state of oblivion. For Christine, however, it was nothing short of a dismal reality that would cruelly take precedence over her life once more. The spurned creature would reprimand his unfaithful bride. And no stars, no divine intervention could bind him from claiming such oblivious innocence for his own. She would be his once again this night.
And as her weary gaze fell upon the mirror once more she noticed that there was not one reflection but two, the cold, forlorn expression that became her was opposed by the impassive visage of cracked porcelain. Her mind only confirmed what her timid heart already knew:
Erik had come at last.
Christine remained where she was, seated in the uncharacteristic pose of an indifferent lady whose only priority was to stare vacantly at her own image. But as her eyes remained solely upon the mirror their gaze was focused upon the looming figure that slowly approached.
She watched Erik move with the dark confidence that resided within him. His gait was perfect, graceful like a skilled dancer, but silent as a shadow. Her heart nearly stopped when she noticed him standing directly behind her. It was like staring at the face of Death, yet not fearing him as one should. And she could not find it within herself to turn away from the insidious reflection that blissfully haunted her mind and dreams.
For Erik—the perfect incarnation of Death—was too compelling to turn away from. His very presence mesmerized her, enchanting her with the skilled sonnets that poets long since dead enticed their muses with. And she was his muse. Even after everything that had transpired between them, she still held that position within his artistic mind. It would remain unchanged as long as both lived.
She then felt herself release the dread, worry, and overall fear that had plagued her since the previous night. It was time to accept the consequences and move on. She only prayed that Erik would be lenient. His gracious mercy would be a gift from God.
"Christine…"
Her eyes closed at the utterance of her name as the turbulent feelings of euphoria coerced her to answer. "Erik," she said in a breathless whisper, and she felt him move closer, his firm figure moving heavily against the back of her chair.
In the silence that followed Christine imagined that she heard the angered, yet controlled, breathing that emanated from Erik's imperious figure, making her painfully aware of his intentions. He would punish her without giving any consideration of the consequences.
Another moment passed as she spent a deathless eternity watching him within the mirror, the apathetic stare his eyes ensued only dissuaded her to turn and confront him, mask to face, her resolve weakening as she felt his callused authority overcome her. Erik would be the one to initiate the conversation, not she.
And he did not disappoint her, for as if reading her thoughts, he finally spoke: "You seem distraught, Christine," his thoughtful words cut through her like a knife. "Your face is pale. I daresay it is indeed quite paler than mine, if such a thing is to be had." The light in her eyes suddenly dimmed, and under the mask he smiled. "What troubles you, my dear Christine?" His mildly asked question made her flinch.
Christine stared at his image as the hidden tears within her eyes threatened to emerge and traitorously reveal themselves to him. Inside, however, a slight sense of confidence defeated her momentary weakness, giving him the courage to speak and prove that she was no longer a child who feared him.
A shuddered breath escaped her as she moved to speak. "Do not pretend that you do not know, Erik. You know very well why I am upset, and why you are here," she said, precariously holding on to what little ground she had with him. "I make no move to confess something I am not guilty of."
Erik inwardly tensed, her lovely voice only infecting him with the bitter sharpness of her irreverent tongue. "Then let us not keep up the pretense," his words seethed with malcontent. His thoughtless wife had just foolishly sealed her own fate.
He glanced at Christine's innocent features, noting the wariness within her petulant expression. A stab of unprecedented fury burned within him as his hands moved to the soft loose curls that flowed and ebbed delicately about her shoulders. His fingers entangled themselves within the silken tresses with a mindless abandon that nearly consumed him. She would no longer remain a blushing bride to him, not after this night.
A sudden, shrill gasp escaped Christine when she noticed his fingers invading her hair, penetrating the virgin curls like a reckless lover who was left to be sated of his ignominious thirst. He watched her expression shift from wavering disbelief to chronic fear, and his grin widened ever so slightly from the delightful sight. She was losing her innocence as she helplessly watched him desecrate her image in the mirror.
Another small gasp deserted her, and she felt herself strangely possessed by Erik. Her eyes remained fixed upon the emaciated fingers that moved throughout her hair, their entanglements within the tousled strands were purposeful, intentional. Erik's hands moved with the skilled mastery of ardent lover, and yet held a sense of restraint. The hesitant nature his touch conveyed only ignited a deep, almost unknown passion within her. The fascination of the tangible feel of his sensitive ministrations almost forced her to relent and forgo her present anger with him.
But just as the moment enticed her to abandon all sense of reason it shattered when she felt his fingers tighten, painfully forcing her to realize her error.
Yellow eyes reflected the indignation that burned deeply within them as the domineering hold on her tightened, instinctively coiling the captive strands of ebony around his withered fingers. Christine's eyes widened at the horrid display—the white skeletal digits that held her dark hair captive were a perfect contrast of the abysmal nature of both.
Whether Erik noticed the strange, significant union between them she could not tell. The only truth that lay with her was the firm, unchangeable fact that she would adhere to whatever he had to say. And even if his words only left her with the chilled remorse of a thousand nights without his companionship, she would accept whatever fate he bestowed upon her. And with this, she nodded, giving him the freedom to speak.
A brief, almost visible show of hesitation shifted within Erik's rigid stance. His hands remained where they were, however, as they held themselves within the confines of Christine's illustrious hair. The intangible scent of her perfume filled his senses; his hidden face scowled underneath the mask as the languid fragrance of a musky, yet intoxicating, trace of lavender burned within his mind, tantalizing him to the point of madness.
His eyes hardened as the inaudible state of breathing stilled itself within his chest. Never before had she ever dared to defy him in such a brutishly exquisite manner. And yet, never before had she ever compelled him to withdraw his defenses and try to understand what timid longings ran throughout her mind. It was as if she was giving herself over to him—willingly forfeiting whatever strength pervaded her fragile form. The undeniable truth of her submission almost forced him to relinquish the captive strands of hair from his bloodstained hands.
He considered her silently, his eyes riveting over her still figure. His slight intake of breath only deepened, steeling itself against him as his gaze drew forward, noticing the unequivocal perfection that made her. The pallor of her skin did not remain with her face, but all over. The pale, unbroken beauty engulfed Christine with a rigid porcelain splendour that martyred virgins would be envious of.
Erik could not look away as the hauntingly beautiful image of her innocence remained with him. Even within the dark recesses of his tormented mind he could not turn his sight away.
Like a goddess conjured from a Grecian myth, Christine bestowed upon her mortal captor the awe and decadence that completed her. She had the power to resurrect lost souls and make them walk the earth as men once more. Her bare shoulders and endless tide of dark hair were enough to hold the very foundations of Heaven in place. And her eyes…were enough to render him without thought or care for the reason of his being here now.
But as the staid moment seemed to drift upon the edges of an endless eternity, the last traces of his sanity steered him away, forcing him to remember her betrayal and the remote anger that festered within his black soul.
"You seem to have little care for your reputation, my dear," he began, the cold, drilling sound of his godlike voice reverberated the acrid disappointment that engulfed his being. "As seen from last night, I find that you have little concern of how you represent yourself in front of others."
Christine visibly frowned at his words. "Is that what you believe?" she asked, her innate disbelief causing her to turn a fraction in the vanity seat, only to see the unmoving length of his shoulder. She glared at the resolute shape, inwardly angered by the silence that followed her question. Her eyes narrowed and her muscles tensed under Erik's distant scrutiny. "I would have your anger than this incessant silence that seems to taint your better judgment."
Erik did not respond to her sudden admission of anger, as he could only consider the audacity that was laced within her finely articulated words. The wintry bitterness that surmounted each blessed syllable with its apathetic spite compelled him with a remote effortlessness to answer her.
"Is that what you desire, Christine?" he asked profoundly, his fingers shifting ever so slightly within the dark folds of her hair.
"It is," she answered without reservation, her eyes fixed upon a hand that held a loose curl.
The tender ministrations upon Christine's hair slowed to a crawl as Erik considered her. The bravado she imparted was impressive, intriguing even. She had symbolically invited his anger, daring it to unleash itself upon her, and inevitably ripping away any foundation she may have built to bridge the massive chasm that forever separated them.
Erik smiled under the mask. He would not disappoint her.
His left hand moved forward and fell lightly against a pale cheek. The skin under his glove felt warm and full of life—unlike the poor excuse of tattered and mottled flesh upon his own face—that seemed to only promote his passionate awareness of her to the point of driving her away from him. His fingers remained where they were, however, basking in the warmth that appeared to quell the icy death that lingered upon his own flesh.
She was perfect in every aspect, he aptly noted. The brilliant, flawless precision that only echoed from his works was personified in the woman before him. He would be a fool to release her, offer her like a virginal sacrifice to a callous multitude of unsanctified deities whose only purpose was to tear away any innocence that remained.
And with this, Erik moved forward, a porcelain cheek inexorably falling against hers. He felt a slight shudder emit from her, heard the delicate intake of breath from her apparent discomfort. He smiled at this as his right hand moved to the opposite side of her face, caressing it with the tender ministrations of a skilled lover.
"The price of a betrayal towards me is dire, Christine," he whispered, and then tilted his face slightly against hers. The porcelain lips shifted and lightly traced her delicate cheek as the words became more graceful, less severe. "You will not leave my side for another man again."
He heard the cry that escaped her, vaguely noticing that her eyes were fixed upon the compromising image in the mirror's obtrusive reflection. To any common man, it was scandalous, if not utterly blatant in the harsh standards of an indirect society that prided itself upon morality and just behaviour.
Nevertheless, Erik set aside the momentary caution that seemed to bleed through the garish white façade of Christine's shocked expression. Their childish interlude was at an end, and it was time to cast aside the false civility that only masked the undeniable truth.
"You realize that I desire a perfect wife; I have told you as much. And with this perfection comes a certain dilemma, which I am sure that you so utterly despise. And despite the untouched innocence that boy graciously left you, I cannot promise that I will be as merciful."
Erik paused, watching her lifeless guise melt to one of true horror as she realized the subtle warning behind his words. "Know that if I see you with another man—other than myself—I cannot assure you that I will allow him to live long after our meeting. In fact, I fear that such sympathy for something not of my own kind would be almost…impractical. And I am a practical person, Christine."
His left hand tightened around a loose strand of her hair. "Do not force me to commit a needless murder for your sake. I find that ending any man's life with a trace of noble blood to be quite unpleasant—especially for one as foolish and arrogant as your pretty admirer."
A light frown frayed Christine's pale features as Erik's admonition left a callous reminder of the concealed wrath that embittered him. But in spite of the dark resentment that obviously clouded the remnants of his sanity, she knew that his possessive nature—regardless of the true cruelty behind his words—only attested to his refusal to allow true harm to come to her. And for that, she found that for all the subtleties of his dark past could be overlooked, if not forgiven in her eyes. Erik was not her enemy.
And as such, she looked once more into the mirror, and stared upon the dual image. A pale hand moved away from her side and gracefully fell upon one of his. She watched with grim satisfaction as his yellow eyes smoldered with what could be considered as anger. However, the slight shift in his movements contradicted his infuriated demeanor.
Christine's hand tightened around his as she spoke with the calm certainty that compelled her: "He is not an admirer, Erik. Nor is he one that I would dare meet in private again. I only wished to return any courtesy that he had bestowed upon me." Her eyes moved to their joined hands, and then back to the mirror. "It was nothing more than that. You must know that I could never betray you, that I could never le—"
"For your sake, pray that you are not lying, Christine," he coldly interjected, not caring to hear any more of the lies that spewed forth from her lovely lips. "It would be a shame for you to endure the observations of someone being strangled in the name of a false love." He glared at her. "The neck of a human is truly a fragile thing. One must not exert too much pressure, lest the bone snap upon contact."
The cold porcelain that abused her cheek moved away; as did the captive snare abruptly loosen upon her tangled strands of hair. She noticed that Erik now stood behind her, like a silent sentinel that denied himself the innate human contact that tormented him. The only evidence of their brief union lay upon the joining of their hands.
Erik watched the hope that faintly burned within her eyes wither, and then die. All hopes within the intimate contact between them had immediately expired the moment he spoke his poison. And it was a deadly poison that usurped any purity or goodness that she might have found within him. She would despise him; fear him and the promise, which left only the bitter sting of the knowledge that he would execute his vow to the exact measure.
He removed his hand from hers then, disregarding the apparent look of pain upon her ivory face. Christine's visible discontent was something that could be ignored, if not overlooked entirely. He cared not if she chastised him in the still silence after he left her company. Christine's alleged pain was brought on by her own foolish actions.
And as he made his way to the door, he turned and looked at her sullen figure once more. His indifferent stare moved over her with remote apathy as the words that festered within escaped him, "No man shall ever have you, for you are mine, Christine. And I will not share you with another." The golden flare within his eyes bespoke their master's somber vow.
Christine pulled away from the vanity to speak, but found herself rendered silent as the condescending reproach within Erik's expressionless stare demanded no further exchange between them. He looked at her for another moment, silently, before turning away and closing the door behind him.
A heavy sigh escaped her as the dismal feeling of dejection inundated her thoughts. The vague notion of what was to come worried her as she recalled the unspoken words that burned within his eyes only moments before. Her teeth clasped the lower portion of her lip, painfully, her mind seizing the remnants of a deluded nightmare that had somehow become a fanciful reality:
"You are the wife of Erik: now and forever."
…
The evening faded into the blissful darkness of twilight as ominous clouds of an approaching storm wavered heavily over the palace. Lightening illuminated the black skies with its hellish radiance; a rejoining explosion of thunder echoing within the distance.
Erik glanced at the window and the brooding storm beyond it with disinterest. Given the knowledge that Russia was as notorious for its spring storms as it was for its long, endless winters, he found little fascination in watching it. Already, he had shamefully neglected his work, abandoning it for the frivolous pursuits of the tsar.
He inwardly balked at his employer's method of rule. For Alexander, though firm in his ideologies of making his empire more of an autocratic society, was still nascent in his early stages of leadership. It would be difficult to reform a people who had been freed from the serfdom that the former tsar instituted. Especially since rebel groups—the Narodnaya Volya, in particular—still lingered throughout the slums and peasant districts of St. Petersburg. The reestablishment of social order would take years, if not decades to fulfill.
Overall, the idea in itself seemed plausible. However, the newly crowned tsar would have to contend with the tattered legacy that his father left behind. The double revenge on the group responsible for Alexander II's death, and also the construction of the church over the murder scene only seemed to further the new tsar's hatred for rebellion.
But despite the flaws within Alexander's beliefs, Erik found an impressionable air to the new ruler. Perhaps, in time, he could rise from the ashes of his predecessors and return the glory the empire once had under Peter the Great.
Then again, if all else failed, if the country fell into a civil war that would inevitably destroy a dynasty almost three centuries old, the Romanov family would, either way, leave a notable mark upon the ancient tomes of a history that had yet to be fulfilled.
Another bout of thunder echoed, flustering the fragile glass windowpanes. Erik ignored the furious storm that raged outside, discarding his thoughts of the Russian empire and plausible outcomes of a dim future. After his time with the tsar came to an end, he and Christine would move on. Where, however, was yet to be decided.
The direction of their future together had still yet to be charted. He knew that whatever destination he chose she would be with him, no matter if she was robbed of a comfortable, peaceful life with the de Chagny heir, which he was since his brother's unfortunate death.
The young fool would be the beneficiary of an ancient title that additionally came with a number of smaller titles and lands that had been collected by the family over the centuries. Years of acquiring property under the security of protecting the people on it had only added to the brilliance of the de Chagny name, which was nothing more than a robber's title.
Christine would be a part of that family and all of its horrid magnificence. By joining the young de Chagny in marriage, the union would eventually poison her, taint her, and make her nothing more than a mere shadow of herself. She would be a false image of the former splendour she ultimately radiated on the Opéra's illustrious stage.
It was better that she remained with him, his mind reasoned. With him, she would be free of the corruption that seemed to hover over her. With him, she could at least retain a sense of dignity that her previous betrothed clearly lacked.
His idle gaze returned to his work, and his mind concentrated upon the musical score. Thin fingers moved gracefully over the childish scrawl, as if memorizing each note, each rest that moved the work forward into a mantra of unsaid words that only conveyed its creator's darkest thoughts on its yellowed surface.
The pen scratched against the parchment in a hurried pace, dark ink smearing from the contact of Erik's left hand. A few more notes were added until Erik noticed the stained work; his hand clenched in irritation. This work had to be perfect—perfect like the still figure upon the bed. Erik turned to Christine, who lay blissfully unaware of his presence.
After removing himself from their last confrontation Erik had neglected seeing her for the rest of the evening. He placed the tsar's orders and recommendations before her; never once considering the pain she might feel for his absence. Christine's sadness was something he no longer considered as being important. It was merely a mild irritation that seemed to burn and seethe within him until enforcing the rage that remained just below the surface of his rigid composure.
Even now, he felt the remnants of his previous anger inflame and brilliantly consume him with its dangerous ire. Why did she always turn away from him? Why did she desire the company of a stranger over his? The fragile pen within his hand almost snapped. Damn her for being so beautifully naïve.
The unmoved emotion within his heart droned on with each steady beat, his hand inexorably returning itself to the tattered sheaf of papers. Erik ignored the blemished notes, moving only to add another part of the opéra within his mind. With each movement, each shift in music, Erik felt himself almost a part of his brilliant composition. Very soon it would take precedence over what his Don Juan Triumphant could have been. Very soon Christine—
A startled cry from behind destroyed his thoughts. Erik turned to see Christine shift uncontrollably in the bed, her first cry, along with a long string of its descendents, only added to the unseen plight that seemed to devour her.
Without hesitation Erik abandoned his work, moving to her trembling side. He hovered over her, watching her pitiful form sway and twist in the wrinkled sheets. Her pale face contorted into a mask of pain as crystalline tears cascaded down her ivory cheeks. Christine's cries only furthered her agony as the gentle promise of an unforeseen insanity moved over her, compelling her into a dance of sweet madness.
"Christine," Erik muttered to his unconscious bride.
She did not awaken to his gentle words.
Seeing this, his hand gently clasped her shoulder; the feel of perspiration only increased his concern. Incoherent words escaped her colourless lips as another tear fell from a closed eye. Christine was caught in a nightmare, one that captured her in its dreadful grasp.
For the passing of a brutal moment Erik tried coerce her back to consciousness, but failed. Christine's cries, though softer now, still held a fragment of pain. Whatever nightmare that pursued her had successfully relinquished any trace of rationality. Christine was under its spell completely.
A drilling irritation then moved throughout Erik, as no nightmare would come between him and his Christine. His hands moved and imprisoned her arms in their possessive grasp. "Christine, awake from this nightmare," he urged as his hands shook her. But he only received another disjointed cry. "Christine, cease this madness at once!" he ordered, his firm grip on her arms threatening to bruise the tender flesh.
Christine stirred underneath him, and her tearstained eyes opened to pitifully gaze upon her silent captor. "Erik," she mumbled tragically, a trembling hand moving to grasp one of his. "I thought you had left me."
His eyes widened at her frantic assertions. "Christine, I have been in this room with you for hours. I did not leave during that time," he said, his monotone voice only revealing the truth behind his words.
But in spite of his honesty, Christine shook her head. "No, you left me in the darkness… I dreamt that you left me there, to suffer alone in it…"
"Christine, what dark dream did your mind conjure? Tell me," Erik found himself say, not caring if he revealed any concern.
Her eyes looked at him with visible disbelief, the innate doubt of his concern weighing heavily upon her lips. She did not voice her reservations in telling him; he would not allow her to. Sighing in defeat, she nodded as the words escaped her, "I cannot remember all of it," she murmured softly, "I wish that I could forget it, Erik." Her eyelids lowered in disgrace, the dark lashes gracing against her wan complexion.
"Tell me, Christine," Erik whispered, his golden eyes inducing her to continue.
Hearing the urgency within his voice, she nodded. "There was blood, so much blood." She looked at her hands in reproachable disgust. "It was on my hands, my dress…I could not wash it away…it stained me so." She looked up at him, penitent tears within her eyes.
Erik's expressionless mask regarded her without feeling, though his golden eyes conveyed something else: understanding. His hands moved away from her arms and fell to the unstained hands which troubled her. "Christine," his voice placated her, "it was merely a dream, and nothing more."
A solemn tear fell from an azure eye. "I only wish it were, Erik. It seemed so real to me, like I was living this horrid nightmare and you were nowhere to be found…I searched for you, called your name, but you never came to me—you left me there in the cold and in the darkness until…" She dared not finish, lest she allow him to think her completely a fool.
But Erik would not relent. "Until what, Christine? Tell me."
Christine looked down in silent defeat. "Until I felt death all around me." She inwardly shuddered at the memory. "I knew I was going to die."
"And do you fear death?" he asked, his mellifluous voice resonating within the darkness.
"How can I not, Erik? When there is nothing but the coldness of my nightmares to foretell the emptiness of it all. I sometimes wonder if my father and so many others felt this opaque void of unrelenting despair." An ancient, battle-worn sigh fell from her dry lips, revealing her weakness at last. "Yes, Erik. Yes, I fear death."
"Christine, you must realize that your fears are nothing more than ravings, brought on by something that shall not come to pass," Erik spoke at last, the brilliant luminosity of his yellow eyes holding hers in their captive gaze. "Death comes to us all. It is inevitable, infinite against our mortality. You must not fear it so."
"I know," Christine said; her voice distant. "But I fear to be alone when it comes. I do not wish to be in the darkness, forever isolated from everything…"
Christine's words fell against him like heavy blows of utter dejection. The validity within her fears was legitimate, if not disheartening. And with this knowledge, Erik knew that he would never abandon her. Not in life could he find the means to tear her from his side, and he so righteously refused to release her in death.
For no false chains that allegedly fettered her to another, nor pleas of release would deny him of her, even Death itself would be unable to separate them. They would be one, forever bound to the other. And it was then he turned all thoughts to his Christine, his immortal bride.
Watching her silently, Erik's hands tightened around hers. "Rest and think no more of these unpleasant thoughts, Christine, for these are merely delusions contrived by the false imaginings of your mind." His golden eyes breached no argument from her. "You shall have no more nightmares this night," he assured her, and moved to leave her side.
A gentle cry escaped Christine as she felt him leave her. Her hands grasped his arms, wholly refusing to release him. "Please, Erik," she pleaded, unashamed of the tears that fell from her eyes. "Do not torment me with your cold absence. Please, do not abandon me to this darkness, to these unending nightmares…" she muttered dejectedly, her head falling in shame. "I could not bear it."
"Christine—"
"Please, stay with me, only for tonight," she openly begged, not caring to show her weakness, or her desperation. "Erik, I will do anything you ask of me."
Anything…
Erik's form became rigid, unmoving at her careless words. She had inadvertently offered him her very soul, if he would only submit to this one request. It was a request he could willingly grant, the price itself was too much to refuse.
And so he nodded, agreeing to remain and comfort her until the early hours of dawn. The gentle grip on her hands intensified as his golden gaze compelled her to look at him. Seeing her succumb to his subtle command Erik glanced at her tearstained visage. She looked like a beautiful representation of Hell; her pale face illuminated the radiance of Avernus itself.
"Do you desire my company to such a notable degree?" he questioned.
She faintly smiled. "Yes, Erik, I want you to stay with me."
His impassive mask considered her quietly. "If I stay, I trust that you will honour your promise to me," he reminded her. "Anything I want shall be mine, Christine. Are you so certain to relinquish anything to me for this one request?"
Christine gently sighed. She would pay the ultimate price and relinquish her soul to him this night if she agreed. But was there any choice? One night with him opposed to an eternity filled with fear and dread had all but spurned her from his cold arms.
And in that fatal moment Christine made her choice. "Yes, Erik, anything you desire will be yours."
A cold moment of silence lingered between them until Erik shattered it. "As you wish, my dear," he muttered, his eyes gleaming with a faint satisfaction that burned vibrantly until it faded out into the vast gloom that surrounded them.
The few candles that illuminated the room were beginning to burn out, joining themselves with the shadows. A momentary show of fear fell against Christine's face as her eyes widened from the intense darkness that loomed over her like a pall.
And though she felt the sheer misery that seemed to pervade her every thought, she felt a slight sense of comfort when Erik moved to her side of the bed. The hesitant yet purposeful shift in his movements caused her to lean against him, his cold touch enveloping her shivering body with its strange reassurance. Christine felt herself inexorably move against the broad expanse of his chest, and vaguely noticed that the smell of death that imbued his dark form was vacant.
"Erik…" she murmured softly against him, secretly enjoying the strange intimacy between them. Never before had she felt so relieved, so damnably alive. With Erik, she realized, she could remain in a state of infinite peace, without care or any concern for the rest of the world, and regardless of the many arguments and times she felt despair because of him.
With this in mind, she felt a blissful, tranquil peace overcome her as the advent of sleep welcomed her with its gentle tidings. And in the safe security of Erik's arms she felt herself drift away from consciousness, her last thought upon the man who cradled her against him.
Erik watched Christine willingly succumb to the intrinsic pull of sleep, the light rise and fall of her chest showing that she remained in a peaceful state. His eyes moved over her, gazing upon the frail beauty that became her. He noticed her soft smile and the way she held onto him in her sleep. It was as if she had no will to release him, as if she desired him to stay with her, even during her sleep.
A thousand burning, tantalizing questions then came to his mind. Why did she so willingly relinquish so much to have him stay with her? And what waking nightmare had frightened her into his arms? He did not know. Inwardly, he believed that Christine's alleged delusions held a partial truth that foretold something dreadful. But of course, it was merely nonsense. Christine was not a seer. Nor a sibyl who prophesized what was to come, the idea of it all bordered on madness.
His Christine was ordinary in a way a woman should be. There was no otherworldly power about her, no unique gift that other fools claimed to have been born with. She was still a child in many ways.
Nevertheless, his thoughts, though still fixed upon Christine's oddity, slightly moved to her offer. She did not realize the promise that she so willingly imparted. He considered what he would take, for he would not aid her without a price. His eyes then shifted to Christine, her tranquil visage obscured by the darkness.
He smiled then, crookedly, as the notion of what he would ask of her came to him. For this one night she would give him something precious to her, something that she alone had, all to herself. It would be his then, forever to hold and guard, just like his Christine.
And no one, not even the tsar or even a false god, could ever take it from him…
…
Author's Note: I believe I am making this some sort of habit in updating on the anniversary of this story's publication. Oh, well, I suppose it is rather fun to do, even though I am not overly pleased with the chapter itself. I apologise for the grammatical errors. Truly, I just wanted to get this posted.
Anyway, I am sure everyone can see where this is going, and it's about bloody time, too. I have waited so long to have this part written and posted. I swear this scene was in my mind for over a year before actually writing it. It was wonderful to finally see it come to life, even though it may difficult to believe from what Christine said to Erik at the end. I tried to make what happened between them as believable as I possibly could.
Oh, and the part with the mirror was a seduction scene, even if both were unaware of it. I just had to add that in. I grow tired of angst all of the time. There needs to be some sort of interval between the swaying emotions and overall hatred and indecision of it all.
I also wanted to mention that I have updated a little segment on my frequently asked questions section. I have made a Descanov family tree, and added it there. It can be found at the last part concerning those characters.
With all of that said, I wished to thank everyone for their kind considerations and condolences concerning my father. I know he would have wanted me to continue this, since he was very aware of my writing it. I can only thank him for the many history books he gave me to do my research. And I will get this story finished, even if cuts in my time at college. ;)
Again, thank you, everyone, for reviewing!