Disclaimer: No one here is mine, I guess :P
"I wonder if these wandering thoughts are as worthy of you as the tea you now put aside," Erik said gently, in an effort to dissipate her pensive air.
Christine looked up at him and smiled as a tide of melancholy washed over her. Six months ago, she had been perfectly accustomed to Erik's drastic changes of behavior after an outburst. She knew that he hated to see his feelings suddenly exposed, and letting them out was to him an unnecessary disclosure that he had to repair at all costs. Therefore, that sudden gentleness should be unsurprising at the present circumstances, still it had startled her for a moment. The thought that his countless nuances were no longer familiar to her was sad, but true.
"No, they certainly aren't," she shrugged. "You would be surprised at how silly they are."
"Well?" he urged her on, his nonchalant tone contrasting with the look of inquisitiveness in his eyes.
"It feels so odd and wonderful to be here in your music room, simply having tea with you…" she confessed, not sure if the words were appropriate, but still going on, "I haven't thought I would do this with anyone again."
"I thought it was quite common at the Vicomte's estate," he said, reacting with nothing but slight surprise at the underlying meaning of her statement.
She sipped her tea, analyzing his subtle response. In other circumstances, she would have thought him merely curious, but curiosity wasn't exactly the sentiment that governed Erik every time Raoul's name was mentioned.
"Not really," she replied, choosing to be disdainfully honest about how she had spent her time apart from him. "It wouldn't be the same, and there was always a social event that I wasn't 'traumatized' enough in order to not attend to."
He chuckled inwardly at her remark. He wouldn't have expected such fine irony coming from Christine six months ago. Her incursion into the aristocratic world mustn't have been very pleasant, but it had indubitably influenced her decision to come to him tonight. And perhaps it could influence numerous other decisions in the future.
Succumbing to her pleas had seemed extremely unwise, but he was beginning to enjoy it. He knew he could no longer live in crude solitude after tasting her daily company. With time, he would have ended up adoring her just like before – perhaps even more fervently –, whether she had returned to him or not.
He watched as she discreetly looked around, hoping she would see that their surroundings remained unchanged. In that dear room, it was as though that night and the six months that had followed had been just a bad dream, not so different from the ones that haunted him every night. The Louis-Phillipe room had been his haven during the past six months, though there were almost no signs of her there. Only now, when his days of grief seemed to have come to an end, was he able to notice that it was in the music room that Christine's touch lay on each detail, telling the story of every minute they had spent together. Her favorite books were still lying on a separate shelf and, despite his recent convulsed works, her vocal exercises were still placed on top of the piano.
That room had always meant a lot to the both of them. Here, they had developed a soothing relationship, completely different from everything they had experienced before. She had learnt both how to fear and how to love his company, in a process of approach initiated somewhere in their evenings of melody and words. With this, both his and her wounds had been healed. A thousand unspoken feelings were permanently floating in the air, becoming comprehensible only through their undivided idiom. He had shown his love for her through his music, and, with her beautiful voice raised in song, she had replied – sometimes with hesitancy and trepidation, sometimes with trustfulness and acceptance.
"You know, Erik, your music is what I missed the most," she said suddenly, breaking the reverie they both seemed to be in. "And you still haven't played for me tonight."
He covered her hand with his own after making sure the heat of the cup of tea he had been holding tightly had warmed it enough. "I'll always be glad to play for you, my dear," he stood up, coming undone at the grateful smile she bestowed upon him, "you just need to ask."
He began to play without preambles, as soon as he finished his awestruck path to the piano. His hands merely brushed the keys to exude the melodies that poured incessantly in his mind. It had been an eternity since he had played randomly like this… Christine's departure had taken away that fragile happiness and, ironically, he had spent most of the time afterwards composing songs that only her could sing beautifully.
Now that his heart wasn't filled with despair anymore, only light emotions flowed from his fingers. After all, this wasn't very different from composing; he was letting his feelings out in the same way.
He watched as Christine closed her eyes and tilted her head to savor the music. He couldn't hear her, but he knew she was humming the familiar melody he was playing at the moment.
The melody changed as his heart flooded with love for her.
It was with great incredulity that he felt her arms around his neck, and perhaps only incredulity kept him playing exactly like he had been doing in the past two hours.
"Good night, Erik," she whispered tepidly from behind him.
"Good night," he managed to murmur in response.
Sighing as the sound of her footsteps slowly died away, he let himself revel in her touch. Her closeness swamped his senses, and when he took a deep, instinctive breath, her presence still lingered in the air.
He was standing just a few inches away, his cowl mesmerizing her like no elaborated mask had that night. She could see his eyes gleaming in the dark as he looked down at her. His fingers brushed her arm, trailing a seductive path to her palm, and delicate rose petals touched her fingertips. He was offering her a single black rose, and as she took it, she perceived the red fluid that was slowly finding its way to the petals.
Christine woke up with a gasp, stunned at the dark veracity of that dream. Still with vestiges of it revolving in her mind, she recognized the Luis-Phillipe room and the sound of Erik's organ, which greeted her ears. Had he played all night? The song he was playing now was anguished and passionate; she had never heard it before.
While dressing up, she recalled the pleasant evening they had spent together, wondering humorously, now that this was no longer a frightening possibility, how she would have found the Rue Scribe entrance again hadn't he accepted her back.
She ventured through the corridors, following the sound until she reached his bedroom. There, she halted and listened intently. She dared not enter that room, and she thought it useless to knock on the door; he was too absorbed in his work to hear any noise coming from outside and he obviously didn't want to be disturbed, given that he had retreated to his bedroom during the night.
Christine left the house by the lake hoping she could see Erik later at the masked Ball and intrigued with the unknown melody that emanated from his bedroom that morning. Just like her dream, it was beautiful, powerful and indecipherable.
The Red Death descended the grand staircase, leaving only sepulchral silence behind. The music ceased instantly, along with every human word, and those who believed in the Opera Ghost's legend thought he had finally come out of his lair, wearing no mask.
Erik paid no heed to the gawky Phantoms or to their disconcerted female companions, who gaped at him in great horror behind their sumptuous masks. Even Mephistopheles got out of his way as he walked toward the managers – who were shaking hard in their skeleton costumes – and addressed them,
"What could have caused such an abrupt silence, good messieurs? You should know by now that I love music. It is because of music that I am here, after all," he said with a tinge of matchless irony in his tone. The Parisian high-society wasn't as mutable as its members' affections, and the spectators tonight were the same as in the night of the fall of the chandelier. The sound of his voice, already forgotten, sent shivers down their spines now like it had then. "I present you the Phantom's opera, my 'Dom Juan Triumphant'," he announced, throwing a voluminous manuscript at André and Firmin's feet. "I advise you to ensure that my demands are met this time, messieurs. Not everything is replaceable like a shattered chandelier."
André bent mutely to get the manuscript, while Firmin stood frozen, simply gazing at the Phantom and almost believing that he was truly a ghost, in face of his implausible return.
Having finished with the managers, the Red Death whirled around to face Christine, who was moving toward him without hesitation. Erik had watched her throughout the night, still he went breathless now that he was face to face with his angel. She wore a graceful pink costume, and her curls were flowing down her back. Like a blossom amongst bumbling bushes, she needed no artifices to outshine the mere imitation of beauty that reigned in that ballroom – a pair of chandelier earrings he had once given her, along with an unfamiliar necklace were her only ornaments. Her blue eyes locked onto his and he could see the red flush that colored her cheeks as he so avidly drank in her beauty.
"Beautiful Christine…" he murmured only for her to hear, while his dark eyes burned into hers – the all-consuming passion in them was all she needed to know it was really he behind that menacing skull mask.
Greatly daring, he touched her throat, and her lips parted in an inaudible gasp. His fingertips drifted interrogatively to the chain around her neck, but Christine never cared to pull away, delighting in his touch despite its dangerous consequences. She had dreamt of the cool suavity of his caresses for so long… and reality proved to be better.
But then his eyes clouded over and she realized her careless mistake. Erik had discovered the engagement ring.
"Your chains are still mine," he thundered, his touch no longer gentle as he ripped off her necklace. "You will sing for me!"
Only she could fully comprehend the ardent possessiveness in these words and only she glimpsed the wild pain that flashed through his eyes before he vanished into haze.
With the Phantom's apparition, the masked Ball had come to a premature end, and the managers had started to work on the singular opera they now had in hands. Christine had known that the main female role was hers even before they had begun to read the manuscript aloud. Still, one week later, she couldn't bring herself to learn not even one line of her libretto. That opera materialized the recollections of her two betrayals, when she hadn't considered much before giving away Erik's treasured trust.
The morning Raoul had proposed was the morning she had returned from her Angel's home. Erik had still owned every thought that crossed her mind then. In face of her unpredicted resistance, the Vicomte had promised he would accept her final decision, whatever it should be.
"At least give the matter some thought," he had said softly, while sliding the ring in her finger. "And enjoy our engagement as long as it lasts..."
Raoul couldn't know how petty he had sounded then, and he couldn't know how that promise of subsequent freedom was alluring either. After all, he hadn't thought he would come to fulfill it. It had been just an endeavor to show her that she had a choice, when it was patent that, at least for him, she didn't.
As he had gazed expectantly at her, Christine had concluded he would be less hurt if she accepted his ways. And so she had done, not for love for him but for concern for the memories of the time they had spent together. It was pretty clear now that all this time she had loved the memories he brought, not him. She had been still grieving over the loss of her Papa when Raoul had come along. That was how he had penetrated in her heart. For a long time, nothing that hadn't been connected to her Papa had been able to reach her. She had begun to sing because her Papa wanted her to, and she had accepted the Angel of Music's apparition as an undeniable truth because of her Papa's stories. She had been terrified when the Angel had undone his disguise, yet Erik hadn't needed any old memory to win her heart.
He obviously shouldn't have come to watch over her yet again. Just to stand behind the mirror, listening to her desperate attempts to rehearse, was the cruelest of torments to Erik. He had resisted to that throughout the week, knowing he'd rather lock himself in his torture chamber than observe the sadness in her face. But she was always calling for him, and he could barely restrain the impulse to open that secret passage one last time and drag her to his arms.
He still loved her very much, although that love was blended with hurtful disenchantment now. He had tried to bury his suffering while listening to her reasons, but forgiveness hadn't come so promptly. The pain of one betrayal was excruciating already, and one more disillusion had just injured his heart even more. The thought that her love belonged to a foolish boy regardless of her pledges of fidelity was infuriating and dismaying at the same time.
"Erik."
The sudden pause she made before calling his name passed unnoticed to him, though he started once she spoke, finally realizing that she had sensed his presence and that he had been foolish to think she would remain oblivious to it. Their gazes met through the glass, though only he knew of it. Christine paced hesitantly toward the mirror, her hands joined as if she were saying a prayer.
"I'm afraid it is too late to retrieve the ring," he said, just because he found nothing else to say, "but you can still go search for its remnants in my fireplace, if you want." Even now, he flinched as the image of that ring emerged in his mind, whether in the chain around her neck or disappearing amongst the dancing flames.
"It isn't what I want at all," she replied succinctly, never feeling sorry for the jewel's final destiny.
Even with the mirror between them, his muscles went reflexively stiff with her growing proximity.
"I should have presumed that the boy would replace it immediately," he said, matter-of-factly.
"He certainly would," she snapped, "I just needed to ask."
"You did not?" he inquired with fake disinterest.
"I must ask you first why you're here, Erik," she demanded, staring at the plain surface before her as though she could see the man standing behind it. His coming here meant perhaps a chance to seek his forgiveness without seeking him first.
"I don't want to see my opera ruined," he said coldly. "I have to know what impedes you from singing at least one line decently."
"My shameful actions," she answered, a somber note in her voice. "These lines remind me of the time I didn't know what I wanted. Now, I do."
"In your place, who wouldn't?" he retorted. And, noticing that that dialogue was becoming routine, he added sarcastically, "I can still pay attention to the gossip in the Opera and find out when and where your wedding will occur, you don't need to give me a formal invitation."
"I don't think gossips could tell you what I can," she muttered.
"Indeed," he retorted swiftly. "They did so in a more sincere way."
"Things changed when you appeared to me, Erik," she said, obliquely answering him, "not like the Angel of Music, who I already loved so much…"
"… but like the beast you still shrink from," he cut her off. "I thought we've discussed this enough. I already know how traumatic I can be."
"I wish you could listen to me before drawing your conclusions," she hissed, frustrated with that interruption. "I loved Raoul for the memories he brought. I wasn't engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny, but to the boy I used to play with in Perros-Guirec. With you, it is different."
"Memories deserved your love more than your viscount did," he replied harshly. "A fantasy deserved this feeling more than I did. That's the difference."
She wondered for how long he would remain blind to the truth. In a swift, terrifying motion, she opened the passage like he dared not do, and crossed the ultimate threshold. Erik stood still, preserving his air of aloofness despite his shock. He wondered what she intended to do now, standing before him. That closeness could do them no good.
Still, Christine reached for him and cradled his face.
"I have loved memories for long enough," she whispered softly. "I cannot do this again."
He remained silent, fighting the dawning hope in his heart. Remembrances of the pain she had inflicted upon him, of the dread and loathing his face brought to her, everything seemed useless against Christine's influence. Was he beginning to forgive her? He couldn't think of forgiveness right now, but rather, of forgetfulness.
"We've been in the fog all this time," she continued, handing him a black rose. "I hope we find our way out now."
Erik stared at her gift for a moment, before kissing it gently and tucking it on his lapel. Even withered, it was lovely and radiant like no other rose he had seen. It had been red in the past, possibly one of the roses he had so often presented her with. Its dark petals seemed to regain their softness under his touch, and, written in red ink on them, a declaration so beautiful that he would never forget.
The darkness of your soul attenuates the hardness of my heart. Just like the rose that irradiates the red yet again, my heart retakes a life forgotten in a distant past. x
That rose would soon turn into dust, never leaving his lapel. The small amount of love in it would have been enough to keep his heart beating for a long time.
xThanks to Vinícius for the breathtaking quote and imagery. You and your writing brighten my days, meu amor…