Chapter Eight
A Most Confusing, Human Thing
Erik had become like the flies at the end of summer, which move impossibly slowly and barely flinch as you swat them, your hand actually making contact with the soon-to-be-lifeless insect as it gives a faint and melancholy buzz and flees in a perfunctory way. He had let Christine and Raoul go—himself, only a poor dog ready to die for her, wanting only that she should be happy. Happy, as he had been, momentarily—happy for the first time in his life—when she had allowed him to kiss her forehead and their tears had mingled as one. It had been one brief moment of happiness, and it had overwhelmed his heart and made him feel sure that his death was imminent. And he welcomed death, as his life had finally reached its climax, after which, there could be nothing left for him. He had made what was to be his final visit to the daroga, and he had returned to his lair and waited for death. He had stopped eating and taking care of himself—not that he had ever taken very good care of himself; meals and rest had always been sporadic, in between his music. Now, these things ceased entirely. Even his music ceased. It was over. He was suspended in dreamlike waiting, transcendent from that moment of happiness with Christine, which was heightened further by his fasting into still a more rapturous state. When he shared the meal with Éponine, it had been his first meal in a fortnight.
Éponine. What had made him go up to the surface that night? He used to like to walk at night. Sometimes he would even take his mask off so that he could feel the caress of the night air on his face. At night, he could have been anybody else. Just a gentleman in evening clothes, the shadows hiding his face. Perhaps he was just returning from a night at the opera to an ordinary flat with a charming, ordinary wife who waited for him. Just like anybody else. He had not emerged from his house since visiting the daroga, but something drew him out that night. Yes, he supposed, he had wanted to feel the night air on his face one last time. And in the morning, he would send Christine's things to the daroga—her papers. Her gloves. The buckle from her shoe. Two pocket handkerchiefs. These little things which he handled now like holy relics and tried to relive that moment when she had stood before him as a real, living bride, bowing her head forward—just a little—for him to kiss.
He was weak as he crawled out of the depths and into the darkened street. The Rue Scribe was well-lit with lamps, and so he stayed close against the wall, hugging the shadows. He could walk more openly on the darker streets, where, if someone passed him, they would take him for anybody else. And then, his foot kicked against something. A person—not a soft person, bony. There was a very faint moan. He bent down, his eyes well-adjusted to the darkness. Just a drunken gamine, who had chosen the shadow of the Opera House wall as a place to sleep off her inebriation. He straightened up to go on, but then he realised he had smelt blood. Blood, and black powder.
That was how he had found Éponine.
She asked why he had helped her. The truth was, he had not decided to help her. Rather, leaving her there had not occurred to him. He owed humanity nothing, and they owed him everything. And yet, in that transcendent state that he was in, light-headed, stomach empty, with a heart full of devotion to Christine with her goodness and light—Christine, who had stood there with her golden curls shining in the lamp light and let her tears fall upon him as he cried at her feet. Christine, who had kissed his forehead—his! In such a state, it did not occur to him to leave the gamine to die in the street.
When she awoke, she was frightened of him. Of course she was. But it was only momentary, and then she had prattled on about wanting to die and needing to eat, like she was trying to comfort him. Like she cared. She said she wouldn't even eat if he did not—and she was skin and bones! They had shared a meal—his first meal, as has been said, in a fortnight—and she really believed that could make things better. As dismissive as he had been, he truly did feel a little better. Less rapturous, but more full.
He had felt like playing the organ that night. He had not touched an instrument since Christine's departure. What flowed from his fingertips that night was all of the grief and jealousy and passion and rage and love. All of that emotion was flooding back, like he was falling back down from the glorious heights, and there were surely sharp rocks waiting for him below. But when he crashed to the bottom, he did not shatter. He was cushioned as though by softly-tilled earth. Warm and grounding and real.
Tending to her felt good. It was a distraction. It gave him a purpose. And, strangely, she did not seem frightened or horrified by him. Of course, she would be, if she knew what was behind his mask. But she wasn't interested in his mask. She didn't have very many questions for him at all, and she said it was better to mind her own business. No one minded their own business. Not the daroga, who was always prowling around and finding his secret passageways and interrogating him about the murders and accidents. Not the ballet girls, with their fanciful and embellished stories of the Phantom of the Opera. Not Joseph Buquet (in his thoughts, he grimly titled the incident as "curiosity killed the scene-shifter"). Not Raoul, who prised from Christine's mouth every detail of her time at the house on the lake. And not even Christine, who insisted upon unmasking him and thereby damning herself and Erik both, ruining the happiness that he knew would have been theirs if she could have just abided by his terms. Even the venerable Mame Giry, who at least was reliable and knew he did not like to be talked about, still squawked to her daughter, and blabbered to the managers—granted, they had given her little choice.
It was different with Éponine. She cared without being inquisitive. But there was something else, too. It wasn't just that she wasn't curious, and he didn't like curious women. There was also that palpable current of understanding that had passed between them. He had been irritable after that, because he didn't understand what had happened and he didn't like it. Many had pitied him, and Christine had wept on him. But he was always a monster, sharing little with humanity. He had never once looked at another person and felt them looking back at him like a reflection in a mirror. And he took it out on her, momentarily, which made him feel even worse and more confused.
She'd let him touch her without pulling away, let him run his hand over her shoulder, and wrap his hands around her waist. She even leaned her forehead against his chest and remained like that, and he'd had a strange and sudden urge to embrace her, which he did not do. She was only using him for support. But she was unafraid. He grew bold; he asked her if he might brush her hair. It was a whim. He had never brushed someone's hair before. It felt like it would be a most intimate, most human thing. Her hair was dirty and gnarled, and he couldn't tell if its darkened colour was natural or the result of dirt and soot. But it had felt nice, and he had seen the tension leave her shoulders, and it had stirred something inside of him.
And then, abruptly, she stopped him. He drew back as far as he could. She did think he was a monster. She was repulsed by his hands in her hair. She was frightened of him, like everybody else was. He felt, once more, dejected and subhuman and monstrous.
But no! She was scared, yes, she admitted it. But not because she thought he was a monster—because she thought he was kind. And she didn't trust that someone would take care of her without having ulterior motives. Because...he was a man. He realised that he could have been anybody else—an ordinary man, handsome even—and she would have felt the same way. From his mother on, people had feared him. They feared his horrifying appearance, his murderous deeds, the pleasure he took in wreaking destruction and blood. But no one had ever feared him because he was kind.
She puzzled him. She was right—she wasn't a lady. She was nothing like Christine, certainly not a worthy object for love and devotion. Still... Still. The house on the lake was emptier without her in it, and he was going to kill that booby if she didn't live and return to him.
A/N: Wanted to give a brief glimpse into the POV of Erik. This fic will primarily be in Éponine's POV, because given the two options, I think her mind is a slightly easier and more comfortable place to hang out in for long periods of time than Erik's, and she makes a more reliable narrator. But there were some moments and context that I wanted to explore from Erik's perspective.
Also rolling my eyes a little at Erik being so full of love for an angelic ideal of Christine that it's literally impossible for him not to do good, but honestly, it feels extremely Hugo, so I had to.
