Summer 1855
Erik stepped into the great entrance hall with the fearless grace of a master returning home. He was not the wounded little boy who limped through these gates, so many years ago. Nor was he the half-mad animal who last skulked away, leaving a burning trail of destruction behind him.
He was a man now. Rich, powerful, deadly. And ready to lay his ghosts to rest.
Closure. That's what he needed. One hour, maybe two. Erik would walk these halls one last time, show everyone the success he had become, and finally leave this hell behind him, forever. He just… needed to prove that they had no power over him. There is nothing here that can haunt me, now.
Or so he thought.
"Erik? Erik, is that you? I'd heard you'd come home… are you in here?"
Very little ruffled Erik—he had seen far too many of the world's horrors—but the image of Rose's sightless eyes caused him to gasp.
"Rose? What has become of you?"
"Yes, my eyes! I'm afraid they just weren't behaving properly. But the doctor fixed them right up, didn't he? Aren't they beautiful? César tells me they shine like starlight!"
Erik swallowed thickly, moved to emotion for the first time in years. "And where is the good doctor?" he asked as evenly as possible.
"César? In his laboratory, I suppose. He rarely leaves these days. Always busy with—"
"Thank you, Rose. Will you see that a room is prepared for me? I expect to stay for... some time."
"Of course! What exciting news! Jean-Pierre!" she called to a young man, "Go and fetch M. Erik's bags, please."
A teenage boy stepped into the hall and held out his hand to receive Erik's small suitcase. Erik cringed when he saw that the youth's head was swathed in bloody bandages. He said nothing, though, handed over the bag, and made his way down to the cellars.
No one saw Dr. César Gagnier again after that. But they heard him. Yes… his screams could be heard for days.
Spring 1864
Erik was not usually one to be bothered by silence. Yet, as their carriage glided down a long stretch of road, he found that his mind was much too busy and his fingers, much too idle. He was ill-suited for boredom.
Moreover, he couldn't help but replay the events of the previous afternoon. He'd dissected each observation to ridiculous detail. From the look in her eye, to the ever-present gasp in her voice. No matter how he spun it, it spoke of infatuation. He'd seen it again and again in young people. This… this chemical imbalance that stole mental clarity and heightened emotional sensation.
He understood it, on a base level (continuation of the species, and all that) and even from an artistic perspective (how many masterpieces were born out of passion, either requited or unrequited?). And he was neither blind nor uninterested in the qualities of the female form. But the idea of handing over rational thought bothered him. Disturbed him, frankly.
Erik valued control, above all things.
The boy was clearly besotted with Christine and she - hesitant, though she was - indicated that she just might reciprocate.
Disgusting as that was in its own right, Erik realized there was even more to their interactions than would be noted by the casual observer. Something deeper than shared memories and the pressures of biology. A clue that would finally help him put his thumb down on the Something.
He wondered, if he blackmailed her for the boy's life, as he had for her father's… would she make the same sacrifice? He was beginning to believe that she might, and the thought did not settle well.
Obviously, he had no intention of putting that suspicion to the test… but, even in a theoretical sense, it bothered him to think that she'd given away even more of that sacrificial tenderness to an undeserving male.
That was the Something. Or part of it. He wanted it… pondered how he might get it from her. Or he could synthesize it... infuse his automaton with it and, at last, they could both be free.
She didn't need to give him a piece of her soul. Only lend it, for a time.
Erik was angry. The girl gave of herself, far too freely. She handed over pieces of her heart in the name of nostalgic friendship or parental responsibility. She parceled herself out, asking nothing in return. Nothing!
And it could not continue forever! A person can only give so much. He was absolutely certain that such… reckless compassion could only exist in finite quantity.
What if it ran out before she could show him?
He gritted his teeth through the wave of panic that rose at the thought.
She needed to curb her generosity, at least until they reached some sort of understanding. When they were free, she could do whatever she wanted. Until then, he needed to put a stop to her affection for other men. Others, in general. The affection she managed to harbor for every living creature except... him.
Christine let out a gasp and he suddenly realized he'd been glaring at her. He closed his eyes and forcibly relaxed his posture.
Jealousy had taken its angry root inside of Erik, insistently pushing against the tight ropes that shackled his emotions.
Oh, Christine. Why must you despise me so? Tell me… just tell me what I must do to please you. The old man, the vicomte… they have done nothing! Why must Erik work so much harder?
Look at her, his mind sneered. She is miserable. You will never experience the carefree expression that she shared with the vicomte. Never. You frighten and disgust her. She resents you, and always will.
She will never give you what you want. No amount of music or gifts or sightseeing will change that.
As he took in her solemn appearance... contentment seemed so out of reach, for both of them.
What tortures you, Christine? Why does this have to be so… difficult?
-0-0-
"Are you very unhappy?" Erik asked. Christine frowned, unsure of how to answer the question. He would know if she lied, yet she could not be sure how much truth she might trust him with.
"I miss my father," she said, at last. He tilted his head and she could just sense the 'why' that was about to come next. Her heart cringed, not wanting to hear the question spoken aloud, not wanting to try to explain herself to a man who could not understand love if it hit him over the head.
So, before he could utter the dreaded syllable, she barrelled on, speaking the very first truth that came to mind. "And, I haven't really found a place here." To her horror, a dam burst inside of her and words came tumbling out of her heart faster than she could restrain them. "I don't really fit in anywhere… and I'm afraid of fitting in, because it means that something will have to happen to me. I don't want to be like the others - I hate myself for saying it, but it's true! I am unhappy because I know that, to be happy, I'll have to lose myself completely. I am afraid that you might… do something to me to make me like the others and there are days when I almost want to let you because maybe I'll be a little less miserable..."
He was the last person on earth that she wished to share her heart with, yet with one word (unspoken, even!) she spilled every secret. Every private thought that she had carefully held back from Raoul - and, yes, even herself - came out in one mortifying jumble.
She had not meant to cry, but she made no move to stop the stream of tears as they began to fall. They made her feel less exposed. Let him think of her as a hysterical female, perhaps it would distract him from the secrets that she unburdened, one after another. Let him dismiss her humiliating confessions as overly-emotional drama. Crying women might make men uncomfortable, but were seldom taken seriously. Gustave had reminded her of that daily, during her temperamental transition into womanhood. So she expended no effort to shield her emotions, internally praying that Erik would be like any other man and see only what he wanted to see.
But, of course, he was not like other men. Rather than avert his gaze from the embarrassing scene, he watched as if hypnotized. He offered no handkerchief or consolation, as he weighed her words completely separate from her obvious dismay.
She exhausted herself, drained the ache from her soul so that it sat between them, filling the carriage with explosive matter that waited... for water to neutralize or a spark to ignite.
A long minute passed between them as Erik carefully considered her accusations. Christine bowed her head, fervently wishing she could take back the past fifteen minutes.
At last, he broke the silence, if not the tension. "You are saying that the others do not despise me, and that you believe I have… harmed them… to convince them thus."
It sounded absurd, when he phrased it so, and Christine was almost shamed into an apology. But his voice bore neither anger nor incredulity and, when she finally dared meet his gaze, she found his eyes to be uncharacteristically… gentle.
"I can see where you might have come to that conclusion," he admitted, much to Christine's surprise. "I can offer no consolation but to say that, had I wished you ill, I would have had ample opportunity by now. Perhaps not the most convincing of arguments, but…" he shrugged as if to say 'there you have it'.
"I must not deny that I am responsible for the great pain - irreparable damage, in many cases - suffered by those that share our roof." His voice was steady, but he was looking carefully away from Christine. She frowned; he'd never once avoided eye contact, before, and she wasn't sure what to make of it now. "I grew up there, as I'm sure you've heard, and I have known many of these people since childhood. If it seems as though they look up to me… I might assure you that it is less a matter of esteem and more an alliance against a common enemy."
Christine very much doubted that. Erik might be able to water down powerful emotion into practicality and alliances… but she'd heard the way he was spoken of, with tones of fear mixed with adoration. He was worshipped by those same people he'd openly admitted to hurting. And she sincerely doubted that most of them had it in themselves to lie about such things.
"Common enemy?" she asked. His resigned sigh made her wish he could have readable facial expressions.
"You fear me, Christine. You think me a monster. And yet… is it so inconceivable that there might be worse alternative to Erik's watchful eye?"
Christine winced slightly. The only alternative she'd perceived had been a life with her father, but she knew better than to vocalize such thoughts.
Her silence exasperated Erik, and he unfurled his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "A story then," he said. Christine nodded warily. "Whatever you might believe, I was not born Master in this house. There was another that came before me. A man who took in a hideous outcast and transformed him into the creature who sits before you. In exchange, I transformed him into something equally monstrous. And then I left. Heedless of the consequences, I ran away… and did not return for ten years."
Erik's story was scattered, so unlike the other tales he had so artfully spun for her. In fact, it was less a story than shreds of fact and observation… like a quilt that had yet to be stitched together. At the end, Christine had nothing but a jumble of information and an inkling that they must fit together somehow.
Another silence. When he realized his words had not had the desired effect, Erik's eyes hardened.
"I resign myself to your fear, then," he said, cooly. "It changes nothing. I shall not return you to your father, or anyone else. You made a deal; your happiness is irrelevant. You should know better than to appeal to my sense of… mercy." He spat out the last word like a curse. Christine merely looked at him, aghast, as if he'd grown a second head.
"But I nev-"
"Silence! Sort out your own… human emotions. Christine will not leave. Christine must stay and Erik will have-" Erik stopped abruptly, and Christine continued to stare, utterly baffled over the bizarre turn their conversation had taken. Not to mention his disjointed speech that made less and less sense with every sentence.
"What are you talking ab-" her question was cut off with a single glare from Erik. She turned her gaze to the window. Her tears had dried up rather suddenly, replaced with honest confusion.
In the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. Erik's hand had come up and then dropped again, as if he was going to touch her but thought better of it. She turned to look. He was docile, now, as if the beast that had overcome him had left just as quickly.
His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he said to her, "Your happiness is your own, Christine. I swear to you that I shall never tamper with your mind."
They each fell back to their positions - Erik watching Christine, Christine looking out the window - and spent the rest of the afternoon in contemplative silence.
-0-0-
It was with great reluctance that Raoul had allowed Christine to leave the cafe, that day. He'd relived the situation again and again in his mind, each time reimagining a different reaction or outcome.
He should have put up more of a fight, social propriety be damned. Something wasn't right about her tone, her demeanor. And, despite what she'd said, the Christine he knew would have never parted from her father willingly.
But the Christine you knew was just a little girl, he reminded himself. He gave the thought all the consideration it deserved before returning to his earlier presumption.
Perhaps you are just jealous? His mind proposed. Raoul cursed his traitorous thoughts - why would his brain be so resistant to accept that which he knew to be true?
Christine was in trouble. He knew it in his gut. Maybe it was something you ate? Raoul scowled. Shut up! SHUT UP!
He'd felt their connection, as they spoke. Surely she felt it, too! A spark like that could not be one-sided.. This had to be more than two past friends recollecting old times. He could not have imagined the forlorn look in her eyes as that… masked fiend dragged her away.
Who was that man, anyway? What was he to Christine?
His eyes were too unsettling to belong to an honest man. They burned with unconcealed loathing when watching Raoul. And he… he treated Christine with a possessiveness that no man - not even a husband - should display.
Oh? And what exactly did he do that was so offensive? Raoul tossed his head, angrily. It wasn't so much what he didbut how he did it. He didn't need an example; he could just sense it in the man's very presence. He behaves as a jealous lover.
And how are you behaving?
No! SHUT UP! I know something is wrong, here. I am just showing concern as… as a gentleman… and a friend. That's all. I owe it to her to get to the bottom of this.
Her father. Gustave Daae would give him the answers he sought. Stubbornly resolved to ignore any further protests, Raoul arranged transport back to the city where he'd last seen him. Best get back to where this all began.
-0-0-
Extra special THANK YOU to those of you who took the time to review! You keep me motivated :)
