She too had allowed her mind to venture into the simplicity of the moment, a normal routine that they would every so often find themselves in. Together. She quickly shook the thought away. But why? Had she not professed countless times her adoration toward him, her unfaltering dedication and servitude? Perhaps it was that she had so easily mistaken, in her innocence, the notion of love for infatuation, an unhealthy obsession he only aided in furthering its hold upon her.
She nodded slowly with his remark, turning again to rinse the plate under the flow of cold water. Then, reaching for a dry washcloth, she wiped down the dish and after a moment of idle displacement, simply passed it off to him. It was his home, he'd know where to store it.
"Again, it is the least I can do to make up for …" Christine caught herself, cutting the sentence short. She dared not to mention her damnable display of curiosity, and lifting her gaze from the spoon she now scrubbed with the moist cloth, it was apparent in her eyes the same sympathy she had retained before.
"No, that's not right. I ... I can not be excused for what I did, and simply apologizing can surely not suffice." But he frightened you! Remember those words, that horrible face! No, selfless Christine bit her tongue and said no more, listening intently to the gentle lapping of the water against the lead sink, as if those soothing melodies would derive in her some wisdom to present in place of her dumbfounded and embarrassed silence.
Collecting the plate from her hand, he reached up, pressing open the cabinet nearby to set the plate with the others. Adjusting one of the glasses so it wouldn't be knocked down, he lowered his hand, absently smoothing down the satin lapel and fixing it so it would lie properly. He turned his head to glance over to her again with a gentle shaking of his head. "Shhh, it is fine, my dear. Do not worry yourself over it."
He wasn't going to think of it now, not when everything was peaceful, even within his mind. No cynical voice lurking about, mocking him. Moving away from the sink again he collected the knife and whisk, then carried them back to the sink. Sliding them into the lead basin he stepped away from her so she'd have enough room to clean them. Since she was doing so, he rolled down the sleeves of the loose robe.
There was something soothing in this moment; perhaps it was the task of something as simple as washing the dishes that put her at ease, or the calm in his voice. Either way, she looked back on her decision to leave him with sudden self-contempt. He seemed so lonely here, and who could blame him? The feline could only serve as adequate company for so long, and it was commonly known that humans, for all of their misgivings and sins ... even in deformity, in desolate pain …needed other humans. Without compassion for others, what was life but a process of birth, a brief collection of knowledge, and then death?
She had already cleaned and laid out on the counter top the bowl and spoon. She handled the knife carefully, running the cloth the length of the blade twice before she rinsed it off and set it atop the dry linen. In her work, she leaned over the bin with fixed care in her mundane little chore. A slender curl fell over her cheek, and she could not have been more radiant and lovely than she was now, a dutiful child that took extra care to polish every prong of the whisk carefully.
Gathering each dish as she dried them off he placed the bowl within the cabinet near the plates, and the spoon in the drawer. Having a block for the knives, this one was carefully lifted from the side and slid into the waiting wood. Straightening out one knife, he ensured all fit properly before he turned to her.
There was little light within the kitchen, just a few of the candles he had lit on the center table near the stove and by the sink. It seemed like no matter where he stood he somehow found his form within the shadow, or maybe he had some preternatural way to manipulate them just as he could one's soul. The white of the mask seemed almost glaring within the darkness, and the v'd bit of skin along the front of the robe. Not as pale, perhaps, but close enough. Living in shadows all of his life had its price, not allowing his skin to get the vitamins it needed from the sun's rays.
Loosely crossing his arms over his stomach he glanced from the utensil she was cleaning to her face, where his eyes remained. There was no need to say anything. Silence tended to speak more than words, and there was plenty to be 'said' at that moment. Just as he had wished to smooth her hair back, while watching from behind the mirror, he desired to do so now, but didn't make any movement though she was but a few feet away from him.
She drained the sink then, drying it with the wash cloth in an attempt to leave it as it had been found. She folded each piece of linen, draping them upon the edge of the lead basin before she turned and faced him. Ever in shadow did he linger. Time to say goodbye, she reasoned. He had promised to return her to the surface, had he not? She was torn between her eagerness and her despair of leaving him, but remembered her promise and resolved to abide by it, at one, if not the other.
She moved into a sliver of light cast by the candles upon the table top, her hands folded over her abdomen as she studied him, wordlessly. It was not an uncomfortable silence that resounded throughout his lair, but one that spoke words in and of itself. Such beauty ... it was easy for her to forget that what lingered between her prying eyes and that horrible deformity was but a mask, tangible to touch, and his Achilles heel of sorts.
He wanted to keep lingering, just standing there in silence with his eyes upon her, but he knew that she wanted to go back to the surface and the cursed light. Back to her friends and ..Raoul. Ironic that the light haired and light eyed man would be his opposite, in appearance and demeanor. He had a feeling she would return to him, regardless of the promise that she had given him. Though would she do so within these very walls, the walls of the opera house? Where he would see and hear everything? He had little power outside of them; too leery about being seen. The boy would charm her, and he would lose her.
Though his features hadn't changed, expressive eyes gave away the depth of thought as they stayed focused upon her, but not quite. It was as if he was looking through her more than at her. Dampening his throat with a slow swallow, he glanced away from her to the door, then slid his eyes back. A brief pause and he gently nodded. "Are you ready, my dear? It looks as if you need the rest, and I daren't dally further."
Christine was shaken from her reverie by his words, her thoughts having run away with her as they stood in silence. Thoughts of Raoul or of Erik? One could only wonder at the possibilities.
She nodded her compliance, her form shifting toward the door to escape out into the grand expanse of the center cavern. The candles seemed tired in their vigorous burn, or perhaps it was the blur of much needed rest that deceived her eyes, turned them against her. She was ready for the world of light, even if only for a little while before she could return to him, her Divine tutor.
She longed for Meg's spirited company, little Cecile Jammes' humorous impression of La Carlotta, Mama Valerius' manner of waking her every morning, even Madame Giry! And ... Raoul. How she needed his warmth right now! Why could she not shake him from her mind even now in the presence of such power, so evident from her hypnotized state the night before?
She was quick to move, he noted. Too quick. Or that just could have been his imagination. Part of him wanted to see that she was in a rush to go back to the surface. Anything to destroy this, to be no more than her tutor. But it was already too late. She had started to melt the ice that had built up for so long, ice that no one else even came close to cracking save for the little fur ball princess out in the main room.
When she had exited and traveled out of his range of sight, he turned his gaze down toward the floor, thoughtfully. He had to kill this foreign thing before it killed him. Dragging in a slow, and deep, breath he pressed away from the counter to make his way to the door. Stepping beyond the threshold, he glanced over the darkened room, lit only by the fire place and a few candles here and there. By the time he returned it should be suitable and how he desired it. The firelight would be lower and he'd be left in his blessed darkness.
The lair had been so brightly and beautifully lit when she had arrived. Now wax bled from the candelabra, weeping. They did what he wouldn't at that time. Dismal night settled like a stifling blanket, threatening to consume completely, even the fireplace crackled and snapped in protest.
Measured steps drew him over to the table that held his hat, and lifting it by the brim he slid it back upon his head. Habitually the right side was smoothed down, curving it in an almost regal fashion, allowing more shadow to cast over porcelain. Turning to her he motioned to the couch with the scores. "Do not forget them. We shall work upon them come tomorrow evening."
She would have been swallowed by that great darkness had it not been for the ethereal glow of her wardrobe. The halo of her curls had loosened from the braid, several of her healthy spirals licking at her collar bone as she turned toward the couch to retrieve the scores. Closing the cover of Il Muto as she retrieved it from the cushions, she approached him with dissension in her heart.
You will return, Christine ... to save your soul, and his. She drew in a languid breath as she sighed and gazed at her surroundings one final time. Had she turned into a pillar of salt upon sight of his organ, and the score that rested unfinished atop it, her eyes would have frozen as they were, brimming with unshed tears for his dark fate. After a brief moment of this contemplative silence, she turned to him slowly.
When she faced him again he brought the faintest lift to the corner of his mouth and he shook his head gently. "Perhaps I should put on more suitable attire. I am hardly properly dressed to make the journey to the surface." In his lounging robe and sleep pants? Heavens no!
She gave an amiable little slew of laughter, her gaze drifting languidly along his casual attire. She nodded in mild agreement, moving from the door to wait as he changed. She wondered idly what time it was; deep within the underground of Paris, where sunlight dared not to venture, darkness and dream seemed to mingle and entwine, deceiving the senses, and considerably paling the pigment. She had not noticed his pallor until now.
Despite the low burning candles, the mask that split his countenance into ghostly proportions almost blended with the rest of his slender features ... almost. Save for its illuminated glow, accompanied by the flicker of amber within those two shadowed sockets, he was cloaked in darkness itself just as he had been the night he had abducted her.
So far away that all seemed, her great triumph a distant memory that produced a fond pang of remembrance in her heart…the warmth of that applause, applause she stood so far from, transfixed by the soaring height of her soul that only the Angel of Music could produce. But what of that childhood fairytale now? Christine gave a soft sigh, glancing once more over this kingdom – where all, even I, must pay homage to his music.
Her laughter brought a bit of a smile to the side of his mouth and he stepped away from her with her nod. In no particular hurry, wishing to keep her here for just that much longer, he strode toward his room, the door nudging open with a quiet creak of protest. Completely dark, he didn't need light to navigate through the room, but brought spark to a candle nevertheless once the door was mostly closed behind him. He wanted to be able to hear her should she speak, whether it was to him or to herself.
So simple was this outing, as if it was not at all a return to the world outside but more so a simple carriage ride or a stroll along darkened Parisian streets. But nothing was ever that simple, Christine found. She resolved to wait for him where she stood, and upon noticing the death of a candle nearest her dark halo of curls, set about to revive its life. She reached forth carefully, grabbing a still glowing tower of wax and sharing its flame with the other. She did this with four or five of the surrounding candles, and though it was hardly enough to chase away the embracing depths of darkness, their luminary sparks flickered upon the still surface of the surrounding pools of water.
Parting the already loosened belt, he gave a shrug of his shoulders, allowing the silk to slither down over his arms and along the plane of his back and prominent, knobby spine. His face wasn't the only thing marred. Though it had been a considerable number of years, the proof of the lashings he had gained as a sideshow freak were still visible along his skin, paler than the already wan flesh.
Finding a simple chemise type of shirt and a vest, both dark in hue, he slid them on then tucked the hem of the first into his pants. Sandals were traded for shoes, and he slid the fedora back upon his head and returned to the main room, shutting the door behind him. He lingered there, his fingers resting against the brass plating, then continued on to the door that would lead out into the labyrinth. "Much better, I must say."
She nodded to herself in satisfaction, turning at the re-emergence of his glorious voice. Yes, glorious, even in such an average remark. She struggled with herself to not throw herself down at his feet and swear she would never leave his side, though surely some of her will survived to turn her against the notion quickly. Without his cloak, she remembered that he had given it to her the previous night. She had left it in the boat. And oh, with such memories came again that eternal moment within his arms.
She could still recall, as she had earlier, the warmth of his breath at her cheek, the same physical splendor of his pounding heart. She had felt it even through the constrictive material that kept their skin from meeting, hot on cold. She had sensed it within his liquid words; nothing in her had ever felt such control as at that moment. A beast chained by a garland of silk and lace.
With the portal's barricade already opened, she stepped through so she could follow him down the length of the candle lit hallway. The light was sparse, almost gone, and he had no thoughts of returning the brightness to its former glory. It would be dark and gloomy before he even entered his lair, preparing him for the vast emptiness that lay just beyond. Ayesha was good company, though she didn't make a good enough conversation partner for him to be entertained for too long. While he might be genius in many ways, he had yet to decipher the meanings behind most of her purrs, mews and movements.
Where before he lured Christine with song and a gentle humming within his throat that broke the encompassing silence, now that stillness was allowed to envelope them, stifling in its overly quiet hold. As he walked, keeping his strides measured so she'd be able to stay with him, he thought. Constantly thinking, it seemed. His mind was the only place he could gain solace, and torment all in one stroke. A double edged sword, indeed. A few 'what if's' came to his mind, most of all what if she refused to come to the lair tomorrow? Refused him? What would he do then? Surely he wouldn't drag her down here, would he?
She gave one last goodbye to the shadowed realm, following him through the door and into the dim hallway. She moved as a ghostly blur behind his darkened form, uncomfortable in the heavy silence but speaking not of it. She felt punished by it, strangely enough. In his song, even the gentle melody of a softened hum or the impassioned dance of his fingers upon the ivory keys of the grand organ within his home, she felt sluggish, sedated. His words alone held her on the crest of an enraptured wave, as if beneath the spoken evidence of his affection – could one call it affection, or a simple desire to teach and guide her? – was ever lingering the prowl of his secret passions. This fact alone both drew her in and repelled her, and she was terribly torn because of it.
Christine had found that over the past hours she had spent with him, not only had his voice held this control over her but his eyes as well, and she finally understood why it was that when she sang forth her heart into Heaven each night of her lessons, the heat of his eyes was always the first sign of his presence. However, this silence ... why, it was unbearable! She felt a slap to the face as each light reverberation of her footsteps in the hall sounded out over her heart, which beat slow and easy within her breast, unafraid. But her body was tense, a mouse awaiting the strike of a prowling serpent.