Author's Note: Go on, have a double update. You did send me all those lovely reviews after all. Thanks, and enjoy! Nedjmet. AN: PS, this is the new and (hopefully) improved version of the chapter, if you're reading it for the second time. Enjoy! Nedjmet.
Chapter 49
She woke to the sound of a soft, tinny little melody playing. She was lying on a bed of red silk draped in black curtains. The music appeared to be coming from a box with a little Persian monkey sat on it, playing cymbals as it rocked slightly. What was this place? Was she still dreaming? She saw a tassel hanging down and pulled it. The curtains rose. Looking around she found herself to be in what looked like a cave.
It started coming back to her.
The fog in her mind began to lift, like the mist on the lake. The lake? How could there have been a lake? As she remembered it, she climbed from the bed and moved forward, seeing it again.
She saw the candles that lit everything. How was it that the candles had not bothered her? Her gaze was led down to the boat, bobbing on the water. The black boat, driven by the dark figure who had held her hand almost every step of the way down. Who was the man who had brought her to this place, wherever it was? How was this possible?
She glanced round and saw him. She looked at the black shape bent over the organ. He turned to face her even though she had not made a sound, and she was struck once more by the startling white mask that hid half of his face. He turned back to the organ quickly. Was he afraid of her?
She slowly moved to his side.
Was this her angel, or the Ghost? Did he know about her face and wore the mask to show that? Or was he mocking her, triumphing over the fact that he had brought her here, showing the power he held? Surely not, or he would not respond to her touch that way, as though he were drinking it in – the same way she had responded to his own touch.
She put her hand on his shoulder before moving it to gently caress the left side of his face, silently asking the question she daren't voice, gathering her courage. He closed his eyes as though enraptured, tilting his head up. Was he granting her permission? He had brought her here, said they had stayed in the shadows for too long. Was he trusting her so much in return for the faith she had shown in him?
She lifted the white leather.
He had left the music box playing by her side. It had often soothed him, and if she awoke to its gentle sound, perhaps she would not be so startled. He heard her approaching, no doubt wondering at all that had happened. As soon as he thought she was within sight, he turned to look at her. Even though she had just awoken, she was still beautiful – achingly so. He turned away, unable to bear any accusatory stares should she remember all that he had done. What could he say to her? He had no music with which to charm her now, and she was probably too aware for that anyway. All the while she had slept, he had thought over this moment where he stood to lose her, where she would leave him, abandon him for betraying her this way. He was only a man after all – not even that: he was barely even half a man.
She was steadily coming nearer to him, of her own volition. He closed his eyes, unable to risk seeing the disappointment in hers. She put her hand on his shoulder. She was touching him! Still he could not meet her eyes. Her soft hand caressed his face as gently as she had his gifts to her. So this was what heaven was like, for surely there could be no greater happiness than this. Her other hand ran along the right side of his forehead. He thought he could stay this way forever.
Until he felt the cool air where the leather should have been.
His hand flew to the flesh he tried so desperately to keep hidden, the face used to terrify others into submission, the monstrosity which his Hope had cruelly revealed after taking him to a hitherto unknown state of bliss. His anger shoved her away at the betrayal. Crying out wordlessly, he began cursing her.
"Damn you! You prying little fool!" Towering over her as she lay quivering on the floor, he continued railing. "Why did you have to be like the rest? Is this what you wanted to see?" He yanked down a cover that hid one of the few mirrors in the place, looking at the sight. It enraged him further and he raised his hand again, returning to continue his rant against her. "Look, Christine, look! You wanted to see the demon, and now you cannot ever be free." He could not bear to see her flinching away from him so he moved away, knocking an offending candle stand from out of his path.
"Damn you . . . Curse you . . ." How could he not find the will to stay angry at her when he had killed men for the same offence? Because he could not lose her, and yet he feared he had just done exactly that. He gave a melody to his speech, thinking to calm her, even though the notes sounded forced and laboured. She always succumbed to his voice; perhaps this would be no different, perhaps . . .
"Stranger than you dreamt it – can you even dare to look or bear to think of me: this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven, secretly . . . secretly . . ." He began approaching her, although keeping his distance as she watched at him warily. He looked at the mannequin, the embodiment of all his hopes; all lost. Or were they?
He sang with a new intensity, trying to express the conviction he felt, "But, Christine . . . Fear can turn to love," he could not look into those weeping eyes when they were filled with pity, so even as he continued, he looked away, "you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster: this repulsive carcass, who seems a beast, but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly . . . secretly . . . Oh, Christine . . ."
Giving up, her name was the only prayer he could offer now. Once again, she held his heart in her hands. He reached out one of his own for the cursed mask, silently begging her to end his torment and the nightmare they had descended into. The nightmare he had dreaded from the first.
The flesh was twisted, distorted, reddened and scarred, extending from past his hair line down to his chin. The deformed side was so bad that it could barely be called part of a face. It was made all the more horrific because the left half was so handsome. The scarred side was so much like her father's had been that it brought tears to her eyes.
These thoughts barely had chance to cross her mind though as he flung her to the ground in an outrage. Towering over her cursing, his angelic voice turned demonic with the ferocity he now used to upbraid her and she could not help the tremors of fear that ran through her body.
He could not even stand the sight of his own reflection. What had she done? Who was this man who now held her? He began to sing.
He was her Angel.
The man who could not approach her now, who had frightened her, was the same man she had willingly followed down into this strange new world, who she would have given anything to if he had only continued with his gentle but burning caresses last night.
He stood looking at something. She knew it was the mannequin that had made her faint. She had hurt him cruelly, no: she had violated him and yet he still sang to her of . . . love. Gustave had been right. The man who sat before her, cursing himself now, his anger having turned against his own pitiable state which she had shared in until only recently, the man who sang in earnest and yet with hopelessness: he was her Angel. And she had failed him. Her tears fell freely.
He held his hand out slightly, pleading for his mask, his protection from the world's prying eyes – from her. She reached for it. Her angel looked at her out of the corner of his left eye, broken; and by her doing. Denying him, she instead placed her hand in his. He jerked it away as though burned and she lowered her eyes, ashamed. Rising to her feet she moved a few small steps nearer; he turned his back to her, shrinking further into himself. Carefully, she placed the mask by his side and then crouching down, wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her right cheek against his back. He stiffened. Was she so unwelcome now, in spite of his words? Had she hurt him so deeply? Yet she still had to ask.
"Forgive me, my Angel." She whispered into the stillness.
Her hand touched his. What new torment was this? He pulled away from the contact against his own wishes. What right had a monster to touch her? The rejection made her shy away. Fool! He had only frightened her more as she had been reaching out to him. Damn the habits this curse had instilled in him over the years!
As she rose, he had not the strength to look at her, could not watch her walk away from him. The mask lay at his side – she was a good girl, even through the terror he had caused. Just as he was reaching for it, he froze, every muscle tensing as he felt her arms wrap around his chest. She had pressed herself against him, moulding her soft, delicate frame to his back. He closed his eyes, enraptured. How could she bear to touch him after he had repelled her so violently? Was she not afraid?
She asked for his forgiveness.
She asked for his forgiveness when he should be the one begging her for the chance to atone for his actions. The first words she had spoken to him since she had been free from his music's spell, and they had been for forgiveness – for his sake? He finally put the mask back on his face, feeling somewhat more at ease with the familiar shield in place. Still he could feel her arms secured gently around him, a dampness seeping through his long black coat. Was she crying for him? He reached down and took one of her small pale hands. No gloves this time; he was allowed to feel the smooth skin against his own. Releasing himself from the sacred embrace of the angel, he turned slowly to face her. Her face was awash with tears and her eyes pleaded with him to grant her pardon. Bowing his head he dared to press a gentle kiss on the hand he held. When he looked up again, she was staring at him, awestruck – much the same way she had last night. Was it possible . . . did he dare dream that he did not need music to captivate her, to claim her . . . to keep her?
He had to take her back. If he released her now, she might not resent him. She might return without feeling duty bound. And she would have one less reason to fear him. He stood and moved away a few steps, gathering every ounce of self-control he had to say the words that would end this sweet madness.
"Come we must return – those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."
She couldn't move as he put his cloak on. He had been impeccably dressed when he had brought her here: he had had hope. Now, he was more dishevelled, and with one stupid action that she would not have forgiven anyone had they done it to her, she had crushed him. She was such a fool! How could she have thought he was giving her permission to remove the mask? They'd only just met!
But they hadn't.
Finally, she got up from the ground as he stood beside the boat, waiting silently for her. She couldn't meet his eyes for fear of what lay within the steely blue depths.
He helped her back into the boat with the same gentleness he had used to draw her out. Their journey was silent. As he drew her along the dark corridors, he held her hand, though not with the familiarity of last night. The music was silent now in the face of the chasm between them – a cold, black void which she had created – and without its soothing distractions, she felt that darkness closing in on her. Instinctively, she tightened her grip on her Angel's hand. He looked back at her then and realising what the matter was, moved the torch he held so that she could see it. It didn't help as he had hoped, since he did not realise the extent to which she feared the flames. That he had recognised her fear and tried to comfort her leant her hope and she again kept her eyes on him; this time it was the unmasked side of his face that she could see.
He put the torch in a sconce, and Christine knew that they were nearing her dressing room. The candles had gone out in that final corridor, but the light was on in her room, so she finally calmed down properly. They stopped and her guide looked back at her before dropping her hand and opening the mirror. He stepped back against the wall, silently allowing her to leave. She cast a few quick glances at him as she stepped past towards her sanctuary.
She stopped on the threshold and turned back to him.
He met her gaze with confusion. Did she not want to be free, to be rid of him?
"Please, don't let me leave if you are still angry with me. Let me have your forgiveness."
He had thought her silence was because she was so upset with him; instead it was directed at herself? He considered her words: according to them, so long as he remained angry, he could keep her by his side. Tempting. One look at her face though, and he knew again that his anger had melted away almost as soon as it had begun.
"You have my forgiveness." He answered softly. She gave him a nervous half-smile.
"I will see you again?" She asked; putting all the hope she could into the question. He looked at her, dumbfounded, before slowly nodding. Her face lit up fully this time. She turned towards the dressing room with a much lighter heart, before rejoining her dark companion one last time and pressing a soft, hesitant kiss against the cool leather of his mask. She shyly met his eyes, willing him to trust her again.
Finally, she withdrew, stepping back into the room and looking around with a small sigh of content. She saw a burst of red on the floor and kneeling down; picked up the rose he had gifted her with. Turning around, she was shocked to see her own reflection. She hurried a few steps towards the mirror that had been shut, before realising that he wasn't gone: she could still feel his presence. Smiling, and not lowering her eyes from where she thought his might be, she pressed a kiss to the delicate petals, hoping he would understand.
A knock on the door startled her from the silent conversation. The atmosphere changed, and she knew he had left. The lock clicked in the door and Madame Giry entered, closing it behind her. She looked at the daughter of her heart carefully.
"Are you well?" Christine looked at her in bewildered astonishment. Had she known?
"I am well." She whispered.
"Then perhaps you ought to finish changing."
She did not leave, even when Christine stepped behind the screen. Looking towards the mirror, she could not help but wonder what had happened. The tear stains on Christine's face were unmistakeable, but she did not look upset. There was much she wanted to ask, if only she was not bound by so many promises of secrecy. She could only hope Christine would choose to confide in her; and as always, she could only hope that whatever happened, all would be well.
When Giry had knocked on the door, he had hurried away, remembering his promise. He had stopped once he reached the lake, having neither the physical strength nor the presence of mind to guide the boat home at the moment. She wanted to see him again? He could not believe it, yet by her own lips it was true.
Her lips.
She had kissed him! If only he was not forced by necessity to wear this cursed mask, he would have known her kiss on the twisted flesh that had barely even known a woman's glance. He briefly thought she was mocking him, but her trusting gaze had soon dispelled that. After everything he had done, she remained devoted to him, as she proved with his rose.
She was his.
