It was his empathic nature that allowed him to feel the tension that ran over her, sinking deeply into every sleek muscle he had once, in a dream, worshiped through touch. He woke within his own cold sweat, stomach knotted and disturbed greatly.
She had felt the first gush of chilled air even before they had moved into that massive cavern that had yet to warm with the coming day. Five stories below the building, it would take plenty of time, and yet his skin had become used to it, soaking up the chill like second nature. The mist was heavier than before, and as it had once seemingly bowed away from its masked and ever elusive lord, it now sought to consume them both in its translucent cloud. Even the aura that seemed to surround her, an unseen halo that topped her nest of splendid curls, could not hope to frighten away the phantoms and the ghouls that, many times in the stories her father had told her, came to capture the fair and virtuous princess from her prince.
She gave a small shake of her head with the thought, inwardly mocking her own foolish and naive innocence, the innocence that she had so willingly served to him, simple and trusting youth that she was. She shivered with the cold, her gaze leery as she glanced from his eyes to the cloak he held in his hands, offering and inviting. Would he again lash out on her? Snatch her in his arms, take her for his own there beneath the promise of guidance and teaching? His eyes alone cast a spell enough to chase such thoughts away as they softened beneath her wary look.
She edged closer, turning in mid-step to slip beneath the weight of the heavy cloak. His knuckles brushed the patch of sensitive exposed skin at the gently sloping nape of her neck, and she gave a softened sigh.
The graze was brief, but enough to bring a faint smile across his lips, and draping the heavy cloth over her shoulders, he adjusted it. Drawing it closer in the front, he pulled the cloak over her shoulders so it wouldn't slip off. "Am I still your angel?" he questioned gently, his voice a lot closer than his lips actually were. He continued to stand behind her, looking down upon her black swathed form. His hands removed, they had lowered down to his sides, his fingers comfortable curling, relaxed.
The cloak was a welcome shield against the chill of the cavern, and as she stood before him, aware of every movement he made at her back, it struck her that in this creature she could find little to hate, little, even, to think ill of him. And she had tried! Oh, how she'd tried ... but that face, despite its horrid deformity and the gaunt and twisted features, still haunted her in such a way as to inspire sympathy.
She had first taken pity on him, then somehow had grown to like him. It was certainly not the same passion she had experienced for her Angel of Music, nor the tender affection she held for Raoul. It lingered between, drifting in and out of the shadows of her secret heart. She trembled with fear under the thunder of his voice in one moment, and in the next find herself succumbing to his words ... his touch.
With his question, her chin tilted over her shoulder ever so slightly as she gave her response, softly, "Yes." Behind that simple word lay years of pain and unexpressed grief over her father's death. He had promised her the Angel of Music. She could still see his eyes, frightened by death, staring up at her from above the sunken hollows of his cheeks. He clutched her hand, and he promised her. And be Erik a man or a monster, never before had a soul touched her own. He gave her wings, as the great genius, the Celestial figure of her childhood dreams, only could. Damned or deceptive in his title, she would follow him still.
It was as if an eternity passed before she spoke, and the breath that he wasn't aware of holding was released with one slow exhale. A momentary closing of his eyes and he nodded, then turned to the boat. With the pole lifted from the side, he sank it within the water, and held his hand out for her to take. He wouldn't grab her as he had her chin earlier, but let her come to him. He wouldn't let her try to enter the boat without assistance, a misstep could disrupt its balance and make it tip.
Once her hand touched his own, he curled his fingers around it gently, then eased her toward him so she'd be able to step into the gondola. She held her hand out for assistance, unafraid but ever mindful of the spellbinding effect his touch tended to have. The leather of his gloves proved cold under her palm. With her free hand, she gathered the train of her robe and lifted it to lick upon her slender ankles, climbing carefully into the gondola. Secure inside, she allowed that simple contact to remain as she lowered her form cautiously to the cushioned floor of the boat. Only when she felt safe at last, did she release her hold.
Waiting until she'd settled, he climbed in the rest of the way, standing upon the length of platform, and with a push of the pole they began their journey through the labyrinth of rivers. He quieted again, not sure of what to say, even if the silence was awkward. It should not bother him, he was used to it. But this time that uncomfortable sensation rested within him. His eyes lowered, pulling his attention from the misted river, to the curled and braided hair of the young woman.
Christine remembered little of the journey made here: his gentle humming, the reflection her glowing attire made in the murky waters, the gentle lapping of the water against the wooden skiff, the dull flickering of the lantern suspended from the mast the only source of guidance in a world otherwise enshrouded in darkness. She observed all of this now with equanimity, her arms folded over her slender waist as they traveled on. Seeking to break the silence, she spoke up softly, "Where did you come from? With a name like 'Erik,' I would assume you would be a countryman of mine." The name certainly held Scandinavian origins, and after all, if he was an Angel in a mere mortal vessel, surely the shell itself had its own story to tell?
Pausing during one stroke of the pole through the water, he gave a slight furrow of brows that was half lost behind the porcelain of the mask. He let the silence settle for a bit longer before he spoke slowly, seemingly unsure. Or perhaps there was more behind his words. So soft and weighted, but with what? "I do not recall." He wouldn't expand more upon that, not on his own. If her curiosity led her to delve further, then he'd go on. But the memories...the memories were something he didn't want to dig up by his own will.
Sliding the pole up, he brought it along the other side of the skiff, and turned a corner, luring them out into the darkness with only the small light in the front to guide their way. She had sat with her back to him, though now she shifted carefully on her perch to lift her eyes to his face. Or rather, the mask. It was the only thing she could make out from the enveloping darkness, and in some quixotic way it comforted her. She was not alone with that porcelain peering back at her.
It was sad that he could not remember his place of origin. Or was that, she reasoned, the curse of all beings blessed with such divine gifts? Could she fathom that kind of pain? One could suspect she might, but for all of her tender heartedness, her kind and compassionate grace, curiosity was her flaw, seen in the consequences of her desire to know what lay behind that mask. "How did your face …" She paused abruptly, and the hand that had lifted to gesture toward his mask and the deformity below ... dropped into her lap, hidden beneath the lapels of his cloak. The fabric swallowed up her slender form until she leaned forward, and it shifted back to reveal the white of her robe – a sharp contrast to the surrounding abyss. She was sorry for daring to ask such a thing, and it showed. Her brow creased, the corners of her lips turning under.
A wince drew him from where his thoughts were beginning to go. He was grateful for the intrusion, yet at the same time not. She was asking about his face, the hatred he had since the first moment he looked into a mirror and saw the monster in it. How he would have been comforted by Mother's words if she had told him that it was only an illusion. But no... she spoke to him the truth, at so young an age. Older, he would have been more understanding. But Mother was never accepting, from the moment he was born until just an hour prior to his disappearance. It was terrible luck and irony that she changed her thoughts and heart just before she found the bloodied couch empty.
"I was born this way," he mentioned calmly, but softer than he had commented upon his origins. Still, nothing more. He was trying to draw himself out of the blackened depths before they consumed him and made the silence ever more uncomfortable. She felt a heartless fool for asking such a question. And while she was preoccupied with inwardly cursing herself, he was alone in thought ... suffering the memories of a past better left forgotten.
His answer sent a pang to her heart, the pity so heavy and pressing that it threatened to bring her heart into her throat. But no, it only brought tears unshed. They brimmed in her wide eyes, glistening in the pale flicker of light up ahead of them. What could she say to that? It was natural instinct to apologize, despite the fact that the fault was not her own. It wasn't even his, in truth. One could not ask for such a monstrous deformity within the womb, nor prevent it upon the moment of birth. He was ... stuck.
She lowered her gaze to her lap, a single tear tracing its path down over her rosy cheek, clinging to the slope of her jaw momentarily before falling to its inevitable death. Poor, unhappy Erik she had said. She gathered enough calm to veil her genuine hurt for him as she questioned, "And your mother and father? What of them?" Unbeknownst to her, the question agitated a scabbed wound.
Sliding the pole from the water again, he brought it around to his left side, ensuring that he pulled it back far enough so he wouldn't hit the boat or her. Sinking it back into the blackened depths, he pressed the pole against the ground below, gliding them along in an unhurried pace. Another wince and he closed his eyes, fingers clenching tightly against the blackened post. Do not get angry. She does not know. She is just curious. As curious as she was when she stripped you of your mask.
Setting his jaw faintly he opened his eyes again to look out into the darkness. He had attacked the Daroga before for asking him such a simple question, it was the natural reaction of a wounded animal when backed into a corner. "I knew not of them," he answered impassively. It was the truth. During the nine years he had been beneath his mother's roof he knew as little of her as he did of Christine. Except her anger. Perhaps that's where he got his temper. Mother often was calm then lashed out with a slap without warning. Though ...maybe not. His temper was far more vicious. That could be attributed to the abuse he had gained over this near-half century.
Born into this world, and knowing not of his parents? Christine tried to sympathize, but she had known her own. Not as much of her mother as of her father, but never before had she been estranged by them, at least not until the passing of her father when she was left in the care of Professor Valerius and his wife. She lifted her gaze to his own, and it was clear now that she could not deny him. Loathsome creature he might be, or simply the product of Fate's cruel selection, she could not reject him.
Destiny has chained you to me forever.
Christine sighed, taking in that solemn and shadowed countenance without fear or suspicion, and even with her eyes she unmasked him once more, raking over that horrid tragedy with the tenderness of a touch conceived from kindness and adoration. In her mind, of course. She dared not to again face his anger, but instead mentally kissed away those silent tears from his cheeks with the affection that was bred in her heart.
He believed it was a good thing that he never got to meet his father. He might be a lot more bitter than he was already. Two parents would have hated him instead of one. He refused to shed any tears for the hatred his mother had for him, and even as Christine looked back he continued staring forward, focusing upon the darkness that awaited them, only to be chased by the light from the small lantern.
He turned his thoughts toward lighter things; Giovanni and how he was accepted by the man. He tried not to think of the tragedy that came because of his selfish, spoiled daughter, but instead on the kindness gained by the older mason. The pole was lifted again, the silence broken by the gentle droplets that fell along the water, then the sinking of the pole. It grazed against the ground, raking and vibrating through the length. It was what drew him back to the present, refusing to linger too far into the past.
Indeed, as his thoughts drifted, her own did the same. Was she having second thoughts on leaving him now? Perhaps. Or it was that she wished only to remain to perhaps put some cheer in his otherwise empty world, if she could. Christine was a dreadfully naive and superstitious girl. She was quiet, even shy, ever timid to venture into something too quickly, too irrationally. What good could her company promise, other than the amiable resonance of her voice and her vast knowledge of the beautiful, gentle, or terrible legends of the Northlands, passed down from her father.
However, the surface waited.
Carlotta, for all of her pompous airs and her assuredly violent temper tantrums upon hearing of Mademoiselle Daae's great triumph, nevertheless awaited. Really, it was where she belonged. She drew her gaze toward her lap after a long moment, a curl straying into her vision. She drew it back with the brush of her palm, smoothing her fingers over the braid she hadn't realized still held her mounds of dark hair in place.
No more questions, he was grateful for the silence. Torch light glinted off in the distance, revealing to them the cavern that they had passed through before. She wouldn't remember, she was too enthralled by his voice at the time. "No others need know where I live, Christine. If they find out, then I cannot be here any longer." This time he broke the silence, his voice raising no more than a whisper. He didn't think she'd ever lead anyone to his lair, though he had to make sure she understood that doing this would be very terrible. It could mean his death.
After bringing havoc to the opera house for years, there were many who would love to get their hands upon him, to make sure he never haunted these walls again. "I could not be with you any longer." That is what he was most worried about, being driven away from her. Even after her betrayal, he couldn't bear the thought of being apart from her.
The light from the cavern ahead was a comfort, she had begun to fear that they would forever travel in darkness, her eyes untrained to the depths of the abyss, unlike his own. She turned her chin over her shoulder, listening intently to his gentle words. Barely above a whisper, and all but lost had she not paid mindful attention to them.
She understood immediately the consequences of such an action, and wondered she would ever find it necessary to lead anyone to this secret place. No, surely not. Especially if it meant that she would never again be able to see him. She nodded softly, her tongue snaking forth to moisten her lips as she did. For as much as he had frightened her, Christine was ever devoted. Perhaps, too much so. But how could she not be? His thrall was so powerful that even this very cavern she did not recognized, having passed through it but a night before. It took some amount of control to not throw up arms with his whispered words at this point!
"I understand." Too many thoughts plagued her; she longed to turn the subject to something else. "What time will you come for me?" She did not even know the time at present, and so refrained from asking upon the hour or day in which she would again pass into that mirror.
"When the sun has set and all have gone." It was the usual time he came. If others weren't there, then they wouldn't get suspicious about her disappearing should they come knocking. "Should you need me ... you have only to call for me here, and I shall come to you." He might not hear her down within the lair, but that only meant he would remain above, waiting on bated breath for her beckon, if he hadn't come to her already.
Carefully gliding the skiff through the narrow passageway, he approached the dock, eyeing it with some loathing for this would be the true beginning of him returning her to her beloved light. Slowing down with the press of the pole, he eased them near the jutting of wood until the skiff tapped against its side lightly. Lowering the pole he stepped out with one foot and held the boat steady. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he held his hand out to her so she'd be able to climb out without flaw.
She was pleased that she could have that assurance from him, call him, and he would come. One minor thing that she did not remember until they had docked. She found herself taking his hand in her own as she climbed from the gondola carefully, the cloak was still heavy and warm upon her shoulders, and as she moved to unfasten the clasp at its collar, she questioned suddenly, "How do I get here exactly?" She had not seen how the mirror had moved in such a way to grant her entrance ... in fact, she had not even realized it had moved at all.
The sequence of events was such a blur, and his power had been strong and grew stronger with each passing note of his flowing, melodic humming. That divine voice ... Christine trembled as she slipped the cloak from her shoulders, suspending it at arm's length to him. There was gratitude in her eyes as the corners of her lips curled heavenward, but she most certainly felt the repercussions of removing it.
The temperature was more tolerable as they neared a source of heat – the furnaces were a story above them – but the mist still seeped and threatened to tug her once more into the pits. Behind her lay the passage way to the long stair well that would lead her to her mirror. Before her, Erik; the Angel of Music, her guide and guardian, the mortal source of her impassioned reveries. She found it exceedingly difficult to draw her eyes from his.
Well... Back in black. Or something along those lines. Story isn't as hard for me to continue posting anymore, and I hope you continue to enjoy the saga. For those that held out for me to get out of this slump, thanks much.