Rhapsody in Red
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Requiem: Erik's story
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I truly existed. I was not, as long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloakroom attendants, or the concierge.
No, I was a man of flesh and blood. I was a man as mortal and human as any other. And as I later found out, I was not invincible, because as a human I was destined to be felled in a single stroke by the most terrible of all emotions.
And I will say terrible. In my own way I might have been called terrible. The Paris Opera House was my kingdom, and I was its king. In it, I had achieved a certain mythical greatness, an omnipotence of sorts, for I was ingenious in my own way. It was my kingdom, say what the ownership papers of Moncharmin and Richard will.
Did I enjoy it? How could I not? Like I said, it was my realm, and I could do what I liked in it. I enjoyed toying with the minds of the foolish mortals who occupied it. I enjoyed the fear that the Opera Ghost could strike into the hearts of the young ballerinas. I enjoyed the almost mythical status that so many men would envy and so few men could attain. I lacked for nothing. Or so I thought. Because that was the day I first saw Christine Daaé.
I had heard her voice before. It was a mediocre voice, I have to say. Compared to the crystal-and-honey voice of Carlotta or any of the other prima donnas, it was rather commonplace, to tell the truth.
But nevertheless I was mesmerized. To this day, I still don't know how I fell for her. She was nothing, a poor nameless girl, pretty and sweet enough in her own way, but with nothing more to offer. But from Box Number Five, she was divine, she was alluring, she was ethereal, she was everything I would never have, and everything I would someday die for. It was destiny, it was fate, it was a cruel trick. I watched her that night, and many nights after, my head propped on my hands, ensconced in my lofty throne. And I watched her sing, with her pristine beauty that could have brought me to my knees. Strange how a mere maiden had defeated what so many cleverer men could not.
I thought of her for weeks. I dreamt of her. Wherever I turned, I could see her and I could hear her. I found no respite in sleep, for once I fell asleep, a voiceless phantom with the face of an angel would haunt me with the tenacity of a demon.
It was several weeks later of this madness that I had finally decided I could bear it no more. I had to speak to her, come what would of it. Nothing could pose a boundary for me, and the Opera House could hold no secrets. It was easy for me to gain access to her room. Several nights before I had thrashed out in my mind what I could possibly say to her. Did it matter that I had nothing to offer? Did it matter that I would most likely repulse her? Did it matter that I knew from the very beginning that I had almost no chance at all of winning her heart? No, it didn't. Because I was determined to speak to her, no matter how much I would regret it later on.
But then soon I decided to go about it in a more pragmatic point of view. I reasoned to myself that even if I had no chance of succeeding, it did not mean that I could not try. Because that's what love will do. It will blind you, it will strip you of all reason, of logic, until at last one is nothing more than an optimist. Yes, even a cynic such as myself.
You know the rest of the story. In a stroke of genius, I offered her, indeed, the only thing I had worth offering: singing lessons. Life, as if to make up for the heinous visage it had given me, compromised by bestowing upon me a voice of gold. That voice was my only hope for winning her heart, and who knows? I might have done so, if it weren't for Raoul.
'The little boy who went into the sea to rescue her scarf,' indeed! Hmph. The boy would never be capable of the love I was capable of. Raoul loved her, I will admit. He did. But what was it compared to what I could offer her? Eternal devotion. A true selfless love that would last for the eternity to come. I offered her my very soul and heart. But use was it in the end? What use was it, I ask you.
I fought it as best I could. I wasn't one of those men who are so blinded with the presumption of their own magnificence they can't see what is before their very eyes. I was no fool, that much was for certain. I could see exactly what she felt, or thought she felt, for the young Vicomte de Chagny. I was at a certain point where I loved her so much I was driven to desperation. I may not have had any control over her heart, but I possessed some control over her mind. I used it to what advantage I could and tried to shield her for the moment being. Little did I know I was fighting a losing battle.
I underestimated the very strength of my Christine's love for the young Raoul, I have to admit. Before long it was clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was more than a mere case of puppy love, as I had so desperately fought to believe. Part of me was ready to give her up, rather than go through any more anguish. But part of me still believed I could win her heart yet.
So in the final move of a desperate man, I imprisoned her in my house and forced her to choose. But by that time it was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.
The grasshopper or the scorpion. It should not have mattered by that point. If she did not love me, she might as well have turned the scorpion. I might as well have died.
For she loved Raoul. She did not love me. She broke my heart, she broke my heart. I was madly in love with her, but in a cruel trick of fate, she felt nothing for me. I was doomed from the very beginning. She never loved me, because by then she was unable to. Her heart had already been given away, given away lifetimes ago to a small boy who went into the sea to rescue her scarf.
I thought I would be able to outwit destiny. But it turns out I couldn't.
But do I regret everything? No, strange to say, I don't. Because despite it all, she will always be my Christine, my goddess, my nymph, the one true love of my life, my soul, because nothing will change that. It didn't matter that my love was unrequited, because as I later realized, I loved her so much I quite frankly didn't care. A love written in my soul and my heart, a love that will last beyond time and beyond death, a love for time immemorial and forever more. Which was why I bowed down and let Raoul have her. Because I adored her with a love beyond love itself. Because I knew I would always have her no matter what.
Because can't you see, Christine? I died for love of you.
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Next chapter will be Christine's story. I'm sort of busy at the moment, as I'm trying to juggle three fics at the same time, but I'll do my best to see if I can finish it and upload it within the next few weeks. Last and third chapter will be Raoul's story.
Constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated.