AN: Big thanks to TheBlackSister for beta reading this chapter!
Our failings sometimes bind us to one another as closely as could virtue itself.
Luc de Clapiers
oOo
The Ties That Bind
oOo
The music stopped. Silence swelled in a beating pit of euphoria and then erupted into rapturous applause. Meg was on her feet clapping, but Christine could only stare down at the stage with breathless wonder. Her face was burning and although her hands clapped she could not recall how they worked or why they moved.
"That was wonderful!" Meg said, skipping slightly as they tried to find Edgar's carriage on the busy boulevard.
"It was," said Christine, her face brightened, "it really was!"
"Don't you miss it?"
"I do, I just didn't realise how much."
"The lead was very good," said Meg "but her voice didn't compare to yours."
"I haven't sung a note for two years; I'm not sure whether I still can sing."
Meg gave a small snort of disagreement.
"I've thought about auditioning for the chorus at the Theatre Lyrique," said Christine "once your mother returns."
"The chorus?" said Meg, "surely not!"
"I have to start again somewhere, and they have already cast the lead roles for the season. And, well, I would much rather blend in the rest of the chorus than be centre stage. Ah, there's the carriage!"
They rushed along the boulevard.
"Surely he won't be pleased with that," said Meg, waving to the driver who jumped down and opened the door for them.
"Who? The driver?"
"No!" Meg cast Christine a cynical glance "Erik... I thought... since he was back... well, that he would be your teacher again."
They climbed into the carriage, holding their skirts free of the gutter; in the taciturn darkness Meg could not see Christine's face.
"No," Christine said quietly, "he is not going to be my teacher again. Things have changed."
"So if he's not your teacher..."
"Please, Meg. Don't ask me that."
"Very well," said Meg, stretching contentedly against the cushioned seat. She closed her eyes, "...but perhaps you should give some thought to what you want. From my recollection he is not the most patient of men..."
Meg began to doze lightly; Christine turned away and looked out of the window. She did not look back until they reached home.
It was only then that she remembered Erik's letter.
oOo
He stood before her and could not move. Other men asked God for forgiveness, they found salvation at the feet of statues and from old words in dusty books. But he knew now – he had always known – that he was not like other men. He stood before the only person he had ever sanctioned to condemn him, to serve up his soul in silent penance.
He looked into her large eyes; tendrils of hate were frozen there, arrows covered in silk. Their poisonous points were invisible to all but him – for his eyes only. This was to be the last vestige of feeling she had to offer him. Her face was impassive, immovable – her features eternally frozen a melancholic facade. He ached with an impossible desire to reach forward and touch her white face, to stroke a divine visage with his wretched fingers. But although he knew she could not turn away, there would be blasphemy in that caress. His hand would surely fall from his wrist and combust into bitter flames.
Yes, she despised him now. Perhaps she always had. He could not blame her for that. She could hate him until every ounce of blood inside him dried into crimson scabs of misery – but he would continue to love her. It was the curse he placed on her head, the devilish scheme he had undertaken each time he had kissed her pale skin. He had eternally branded her with his evil touch; it did not matter that she had not married him - she was forever the bride of a demon! That bleak obituary was engraved into her eyes, more eternal than the cold letters on a headstone.
He smiled at her, a smile of complete, aching tenderness. But she did not- would not - smile back.
He became aware of a presence standing directly behind him, intruding on this sweet reunion. Their tragic trio was once again complete.
"I knew you would come," said a voice behind him.
"When was this painted?" asked Henry, unable to take his eyes from the portrait of his darling Isabella.
"I can't remember," said Edgar. He stood in the shadows in his pyjamas and night robe; he held a rapier at his side. His hands were shaking. "Does it matter? Age had no effect on her – she looked the same until the day she died."
"If I had known that the last time I saw her would be the final time..." said Henry, he shook his head. "She told me she hated me, and then went off to marry you... I never saw her again."
"I know she often thought of you." Edgar said.
Henry turned his head slightly and Edgar was afforded a glance of his rival's pointed nose and deep brow, the devilish profile he had hoped never to see again. Edgar imagined that under the overcoat was a layer of red, glittering scales. And beneath the unassuming top hat intelligent horns occupied a decaying scalp. He clutched the sword tighter and prayed that God would send him aid.
Henry continued, too lost in the portrait to adequately acknowledge his enemy:
"I thought I remembered her face, but now I see her again..." he shook his head "I have loved the image of a stranger for twenty five years... I used to think looking upon her once more would firm my resolve. That she would tell me I was doing the right thing..."
Edgar could not speak. His eyes scanned the window, but all it offered was hollow moonlight. He knew he must keep Henry talking.
"It is never too late to seek redemption; she was a firm believer in that." He said.
Henry made a hollow sound, akin to a laugh. "She believed in many things… hope, love… purity… and I killed each notion with my sinful ways. You know, I've never been able to fathom what I loved more when I was young – the thrill of crime or the flush of love. They are both so absorbing in their intensity, both so devastatingly addictive. I have known the touch of many women over these last years – some were beautiful, some were weak and some were... interesting. I took so many women to bed to try and fill the void she left – but it was like holding up a pin to try and blot out the moon. Nothing compared to that first touch, that awakening..."
Edgar shifted uncomfortably. To have his enemy so close was deplorable, to hear these weary confessions made his stomach turn and his skin prickle. And the worst thing was that this monster was no monster at all – he was merely another man. He was a man who had loved Isabella, a man who perhaps would have loved Peter if he had been given the chance to know him.
Edgar's good heart fluttered on the edge of sympathy for this man, a man who had poured blood over his face to blind him to humanity. A man who had gluttonously fed on flesh as a substitute for love – a man whose life would have been so different if Isabella had chosen differently.
"Only now, at the end of my life, do I know the answer to that riddle." Henry continued. "It is shameful that it took a conversation with that masked beast to make me see what I have truly become – what joy I gave up all those years ago in favour of death and power…"
"Erik is no beast," said Edgar, unable to hide the snap of irritation he now felt. He did not know what made him guard Erik's honour so fiercely, but he could not help it.
"He is." Henry stated, "if you ever see him again perhaps you should ask him exactly what he has done and where has been. He is a dangerous man, Edgar. More dangerous than evenhe will ever admit, you are a fool if you believe otherwise."
"It does not matter where he has been or what he has done. He is a good man now – and that is all that matters."
"Perhaps he is trying, but such instincts never completely fade. You can try and convince yourself that he is different to me, but he is not." Henry laughed again "we seemed to be two of a kind, him and I, but in the end he chose you… just like Isabella chose you! Tell me, how did you domesticate a man like Erik? It is a skill I should like to acquire… to bring such a specimen to heel."
"He is not at my heel!" said Edgar vehemently.
"No you are probably right," said Henry "his owner is of a fairer complexion than you."
"You should have left her out of this," said Edgar, shaking his head "she is an innocent girl. I'm surprised Erik did not kill you for such folly!"
"He wanted to, I could tell. I confess I was expecting him to try, I could see it in his eyes, he wanted to wrap a rope around my neck and squeeze until my old neck snapped. But, alas, here I am. Perhaps the girl has changed him..."
"Perhaps she has!"
"Well, whatever has caused this transformation, it saved my life. Perhaps I should write to Miss Daaé and thank her."
"From what I gather you have sent quite enough correspondence to Christine Daaé; I am certain one more note would mean the end of you!"
Henry merely smiled, and again began to gaze at the portrait of Isabella. "As it turned out, Erik was not the only visitor I had this evening, no, we had quite a merry party. Him, me... and Peter..."
Henry began to recount the intrusion of Peter, his voice steady and full of mirth. Edgar listened; he felt his heart shatter at the image of his son coming face to face with his biological father. It changes nothing! Edgar thought, he is still my son… he will always be my…
The shadows twisted into a hand that clamped over Edgar's mouth, rendering all thought impossible…
"Do not scream…" the darkness said "just keep him talking..."
The voice was so low that Edgar thought it only to be a draft. But he knew that voice, and instantly knew that Henry and he had not been as alone as he had first thought.
The hand melted into a wisp of darkness – and Edgar found himself once again to be alone.
"… And so I have come here to end it all –neither of us can escape this," Henry stated, flatly. "It is our fate, our beloved has been alone for too long."
"I see." Said Edgar, his heart pounding, his eyes searched the darkness for a sign of Erik; of whatever it was that had just been there with him. But there was nothing. He realised then that his hands were empty – the shadow had claimed his rapier. God damn you, Erik! he thought. There was nothing else for it; he would have to use his words to pacify Henry.
"There are two bullets in this gun. One for each of us," said Henry, taking the gun from his pocket and holding it up to the moonlight.
"...and Peter?" asked Edgar. Trying to swallow his fear and speak.
"Peter?" echoed Henry.
"What will become of him when we are gone?"
Henry lowered the gun, his voice faltered. "I..."
Edgar took his chance, and pressed on with conviction. "Who will he turn to for guidance and advice when both of us are in the grave? Surely you must have thought about that... he is all that is important, we do not matter."
Henry looked at the floor. "I wanted to remain for a while, to be with him..."
"Very well then," said Edgar, he folded his arms and nodded - all business and practicality. "Shoot me now and live. Stay by his side and help him to become an honest man and a good husband to his beautiful fiancée. He might be a father himself soon and he will be counting on the support of his family. He will need you..."
"He does not want me!" shouted Henry.
"That does not matter. He did not always want me when he was growing up, but it did not change anything. I was always there. He always came first."
"You put him before Isabella?"
"Always, and she put Peter before me... and she would have put him before you, too."
Henry laughed in disbelief. "Ha! Not before me!" He said. "Never!"
"Always before you,"
Henry was silent. Once again he looked at the picture of their beloved. "She really loved the boy more than either of us?" he asked, his voice was thick.
"Of course she did," said Edgar, almost with a laugh of utter disbelief.
"You lie! She never loved anyone as much as me. She chose you because she was afraid of me... you were safe, secure! But I was the fire in her soul! No man or child would replace that longing."
"Her last words to me were to make me promise to take care of her Peter," said Edgar "he was her dying thought. Not you and not me. And he will be mine; you see, Isabella and I loved each other – but we both loved him."
Henry fell to his knees, his body heaved under heavy sobs. "But he is not yours, he is mine! Did you never have any spawn of your own to mewl over? Or did you lavish everything on my son?"
"We did have another boy." Edgar said quietly. He felt the air around him change as two sets of eyes fixed on him - one belonging to the kneeling man in the moonlight and the other to the man lurking in shadows. He sighed, and began a story he had sworn to himself never to tell.
"He died when he was four years old, on a sunny July day. Peter was acting up, as he usually did, I was trying to calm him. Isabella also became distracted by Peter's tantrum... he had so many when he was six! She didn't see our boy walking towards the lake; neither of us did," his voice faltered and he swallowed harshly "not until it was too late..."
"You lie," said Henry, in a voice barely above a whisper.
"It is no lie!" said Edgar, tears falling down his old cheeks. "I wish my mind was depraved enough to concoct such a story..."
"She would never have neglected a child! She was an angel!" Henry sobbed, holding the gun against his chest and cradling it, he began to sway back and forward.
"She was human, the same as you and me..." said Edgar.
"Did you blame her? Did you make her feel a complete and singular guilt until she had no choice but to leave this life?" asked Henry.
"Blame her? No, it was an accident! But our lives were never the same, she was never the same. Peter became her world, and he became my world, too. Nobody knows about this, even Peter does not really remember..."
"What was the boy's name?" Henry said.
"Isabella named him... before I could stop her..." Edgar's voice sounded bitter. He began to laugh, a laugh so sour that even Henry's senses curled in shame. "She named my child Henry... she claimed that your son had brought about our salvation, and perhaps our Henry would come to redeem you... she could never let herself move on, she always had to be reminded of you... she certainly knew how to break men's hearts, did our beloved...""
Henry began to laugh too, his head fell forward and tears fell down his face and onto the floor. He threw off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. He sobbed soundlessly, swaying back and forth. He looked at the picture again and began to shake his head. "You didn't ever forget me, I knew you couldn't, I knew..."
He looked over his shoulder at Edgar, the scowl had softened.
He looked back to the gun. He began to unload it...
"It seems I cannot allow myself to disappoint her, even now..." he took one bullet out and then reloaded. He threw the dastardly lump of metal across the room. Edgar drew back with a gasp, as though the bullet opened a dark void into Hell. But in reality it landed on the carpet silently. It sat twinkling in the moonlight.
"That one is yours," said Henry "when you are done with this world - use it to go to her. Just as I will use mine..."
Henry stood slowly, first onto one leg, then the other. He looked at the portrait for the last time. He sighed, and wiped something away from his eye.
He walked towards the large window, staring at the pale glow of the moon. He closed his eyes and smiled at the cold caress - the last light he would know. The light he had lived by. He felt his hollow soul fill with a peace he had not known for twenty five years.
It was time.
"At last..." he said quietly. He turned to look at Edgar, he had come here to kill his old adversary now but that vendetta no longer mattered to him. Isabella had not forgotten him, she had always thought of him!
In his twisted core he knew his foe would love his son more than he could ever hope to. And that was the end of it, the old man would take care of the boy, and the boy would further the Cranmer line – in spirit if not in name.
It was all done. This world held no more joy – his business was now with a higher order.
"Tell Peter I am sorry." said Henry "...for everything..."
All Edgar could see was the retreating form of his enemy. Walking toward the window, the old criminal seemed to become one with the darkness. Decomposed hands pulled him forward and held him inside cold arms. The moon's gleam sniggered as it welcomed him home, a lost child again found.
Edgar heard a window open, but could see no figure climb and run away. The forces of night went about their work well, showing Edgar only what they wanted him to see. They whispered for his ears to close, for his eyes to fall shut.
Edgar blinked and walked into the middle of the room. The curtains billowed softly against the night air, sheltering the path of the departed.
Henry was gone.
oOo
Christine pulled her long nightdress over her head. She smiled at the sight she probably made: the high neck and long sleeves left only her pale face and hands exposed. She felt comforted by this lace camouflage, her body hidden and safe from every human gaze. She carefully braided her unruly curls and pulled the long plait over her shoulder. Candlelight set the mundane objects in her small room as deep and omnipresent spectres of shadow. The small porcelain figure of a ballerina threw her outstretched arms against the wallpaper, reaching for something she would never possess. The small mirror on her wall greedily gathered the modest glow of the candles into its depths and sent them back as timid, trembling flecks of gold.
She sat down at her small desk and placed Erik's letter in front of her. She bit her lip as she looked at her name written across the front of it by his immaculate hand. She traced the letter C with her finger and wondered whether anyone had ever written a name with such precise reverence. Everything he did was so measured, so exact. Even his words were spoken with a clipped and formal beauty. She remembered holding his hand earlier this evening and the sensations it brought forth.
To think of how far he had come made her smile; he had done it – he had beaten the odds. He was no longer a man hiding from civilization and growing mad in a cocoon of loneliness; he had taken himself into the world and faced it all. He even had friends! She laughed slightly, it would have been impossible to imagine two years ago – the Opera Ghost having friends. Perhaps one day even attending dinner parties and social events. He might even learn to trust humanity enough to share the beautiful gifts bestowed upon him.
She wondered what it would have been like, if she had stayed with him two years ago - if they had shared a life in the dark shadows of his obsession. The man she had met behind the mirror held a terrible power over her soul; he had not begged for her love with wild eyes and tears, he had beckoned her forth with a wave of his gloved hand. And if she had stayed that man would have returned eventually, he would have overwhelmed her submissive nature with his obsession and his music – and she would have let him.
On that first night she had been seduced by his immaculate black hair, dark suit his confident stride. So much so that she had not seen the desperation and pain in his eyes until she had pulled the mask from his face, until he had nothing else to show her but his bitterness and anger.
She sighed, that mask... he said it kept him sane, made him a man. But Christine could not shake the feeling that he was wrong. That he had always been wrong. To own a mask and wear it was one thing, but to be owned by a mask...
But she supposed that he had changed, he seemed to have battled his demons and come back to her just when she was beginning to do the same. She knew one of his greatest flaws was putting her on an unattainable pedestal. Her fall into darkness had shown both of them that she was no angel, that she was just a girl who could be so easily damaged. She hoped he saw this as clearly as she did – they were both human, both flawed.
Christine had expected him to berate her for not wanting to sing, for ignoring the dreams they had both shared for so many years… but he had not. And the more she thought of being with this man, of touching him freely, of looking upon his whole face, of perhaps singing with him again…
She shook her head. She turned the small envelope over in her hands, still not knowing what was inside. Why did her wild imagination try to whisper that it was a confession? That it had been him sending those notes all along – as a way to bind her to him forever. As soon as the thought crossed her mind she felt ashamed, she would not again think so ill of him, especially not now.
She made to open the note, tearing at the paper gently, but then she stopped herself. He had asked her not to read it until the morning, and she knew she would obey his polite request – strange though it seemed.
She had been trying not to think or talk of him when she had been with Meg, she wanted to hide the way her face would flush and her hands would shake. She still reserved thoughts of him for the hours when she was alone in her room. This was a weakness in her, to keep him a secret, to make her feelings nothing more than thoughts one might scribble down in a journal.
She could no longer relegate him to the night, to dreams. He was real. She thought of his wild, passionate eyes. She thought about touching his hair – his real hair – not the awful wig. Of the way his lips touched hers with painful awe.
She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes tightly. "Oh, God..." she whispered.
Whatever was inside that letter, she would face it. Her mind moved from Erik to herself. If he had truly managed to blight the darkness on his own, did it mean she had failed because she had needed help? She remembered her first meeting with Mathieu la Claire, the constant anger she had felt and the denial that had made her close her mind to the past. Even now, she was not sure what had happened to her; it was as though she had put it all in a box and secured the lock so tight that she could not open it again - even though she had wished to.
But Mathieu had helped her; he had brought her back to life. And now as she thought about him with sincere admiration, and regret that she had not thanked him properly. There was also shame mixed in, utter shame that she had not been strong enough to save herself. She made a vow, from now on she would be strong and do what was right – even if it meant making a decision she did not want to make.
She set aside Erik's letter and opened the drawer, she put her writing things in front of her and began a letter she had been meaning to write for months.
Dear Mathieu,
I hope my letter finds you well, my friend. Tell me, how is Germany? I have often longed to visit Berlin again as I find that the memories I have of when I was there with my father have begun to fade.
Madame Giry and Meg send their best regards to you. The former is currently away helping an aged relative and Meg is planning her wedding with more gusto than I could never have predicted. I hope you have made many new acquaintances in Germany already and that life continues to treat you well.
Mathieu, I want to tell you how thankful I am, not only for your help at a time when I was ready to curl into a ball of darkness, but also for your friendship and understanding. I did not express my gratitude enough over the course of our acquaintance and this is something I want to remedy. You saved me, my friend, and words will never express how thankful I am. If I can ever be of service to you, all you need to do is ask.
I feel as though I finally have my mind back! I am laughing as I write this because it sounds so absurd, but I truly hope you continue to help others as you helped me. I am happy, for the first time in so many years I am looking forward, not glancing back. And although the future is perhaps more frightening than the past I finally feel strong enough to stand up and face it.
I confess that I am ashamed that I could not save myself, but perhaps learning to accept help is another lesson I needed to acquire. I am learning lessons continually at the moment. You see, when you helped me unlock the mysteries of my mind, I began to understand what was truly in my heart. Something that has always been there, something I denied for so long and was too blind to see.
Now all I have to do is find the courage to reach out and take it…
oOo
"I believe this is yours," Erik said. He stepped into the middle of the room and handed Edgar his rapier. The old man turned to him, his eyes still wide with shock and fear. Then his gaze fell on the sheathed sword and he snatched it back, irritated.
"Where were you? And why did you take this from me?"
"Right there," said Erik, motioning to a dark corner of the room. "And if Henry had seen you holding that, things might have played out rather differently... you should be grateful." He allowed himself a small smile at Edgar's incredulous gaze. But then he continued more seriously:
"Men like Henry need to be sure they are the most powerful in the room... And, if it came to wielding such a weapon I needed to be sure the odds lay in our favour."
Edgar shook his head, not knowing if he should feel offended or relived. "Why didn't you help me?"
"You did not require it."
Edgar made a disbelieving sound, almost like a laugh, and walked towards his armchair and sat down. He pulled a spotted handkerchief from his dressing gown pocket and began to mop his brow.
"Dare I believe it is finally over, Larsson?" he said.
"For you, it is over," said Erik. Edgar saw the profound sadness that haunted his eyes. "I believe the gendarmes will soon be here. Your son was kind enough to call upon them. I must go... I doubt they will catch Henry, but he will not be a threat for much longer."
Edgar's eyes went wide. "What should I tell them?"
Erik lifted his shoulders into a graceful shrug "Whatever you wish."
"It feels strange, is should be elated by such an outcome – and yet all I feel is regret."
They stood in silence for a few moments. Erik felt an awkward void opening inside him; he did not know what to do or how to behave. He knew he should sit down and offer words of support, but he had never been taught to wield words of polite sympathy.
"I am sorry..." he said finally "...for your loss. I had no idea..."
"Nobody does," said Edgar "the only people who know of that tragedy are Peter, you, me... and now Henry. I would very much like to keep it that way."
"You have my word; I will keep your secret."
"Thank you, my friend." said Edgar, "and I meant what I said, you are a good man, Erik. Do not forget that."
Erik shook his head, "I do not know what I am, but I'm not sure I will ever be 'good', as you so put it. A good man would walk away now – and that is not what I intend to do."
Edgar stared at him. "Where will you go?"
"To Christine,"
Edgar noticed that the name brought a light into the masked man's eyes. But that light was too soon replaced by a mute sorrow.
"By morning she will know everything... I will wait, and see what she decides."
"Make sure you tell her as you told me, she will understand."
Erik raised a brow. "I doubt it, and if she does not, I cannot say I blame her. This is not the first time I have betrayed her trust."
"Then make damn well certain it is the last!" said Edgar, he thumped the arm rest with his old fist.
"It will be the last time." said Erik. "Believe me; I have more than learned my lesson."
Edgar nodded and then looked Erik up and down. His clothes were creased, his hair was mussed. He looked nothing like his usual, immaculate self.
"Go home – or wherever you are staying – and get some rest. Go to her looking respectable and show her the man you are. It will be no good turning up at her door like a disheveled rogue."
Erik looked down at himself, "Ah, I had not realised. I suppose I should and pretend to be a gentleman, although Christine knows better than anyone that I am not."
Edgar shook his head "It does not matter whether you are a good man to the rest of the world – just be a good man to her. I do not think you need to pretend to do that."
Erik nodded. His mind was in a mild state of torment. He had planned to sit outside her house and stare up at her window, but he sensed this was not the way 'good' men tried to win the heart of their beloved.
"Make her see how hard you have worked to right this wrong..." said Edgar "She will understand."
"She will know the entire truth, that is the only weapon I have left," said Erik, he turned to Edgar, suddenly conscious of time. "Peter is with the gendarmes; it seems the two of you will have some talking to do too..."
"Indeed," said Edgar "you are not the only one looking down the barrel of a gun."
They shared a rare moment of understanding; Erik nodded to Edgar with a smile. "Good luck, my friend."
oOo
The Époque
Paris, 16th December 1884
The graveyard at Montmartre was last night the scene of an intense police investigation. The body of a middle aged man, thought to be wanted criminal Henry Cranmer, was found at the grave side of Isabella Lockhart, the late wife of local businessman Edgar Lockhart.
It is alleged, but not yet confirmed, that Mr. Cranmer died of a single bullet wound to the head. Mr. Cranmer is wanted in both France and England on charges of murder, distortion, and blackmail. A representative from Scotland Yard is on his way to Paris to liaise with officials here on the case.
Little is known about the private life of Mr. Cranmer, but it is believed he died with no living family.
The investigation continues.
oOo
