Disclaimer: I really do wish that I owned PotO; then I could actually have money to even further my obsession, in addition to actually owning the characters. ^_^
Christine:
He was there! Thank heavens, he was there! Oh, when his beautiful voice appeared beside me, I was flung into frightened ecstacy - a feeling that had long escaped me. Relief and joy flooded over me in waves as he sang; his mellifluous voice seeming to fill my mind. And when I looked, I saw the familiar flash of white in Box Five. It all felt so right, that I had nearly forgotten that MM Andre and Firmin, as well as M Reyer, were even there. All that mattered was myself, the music, and that white mask. . .
I headed towards my old dressing room, straining my ears for the sound of footfalls or the familiar rustle of a cape. When I reached the door uneventfully, I was worried that he would not come. At first, I was terrified at the thought of Erik being dead, which I overheard while the ballet-girls gossiped. My heart skipped a beat and I had to brace myself on the wall for fear of falling. But somehow I knew that my fears were unfounded, and I continued to make my way backstage to the wings.
I flung myself into the room and fell into the chair near the vanity. I hadn't realized I was so exhausted until the moment I opened the door. Suddenly I saw something dark move quickly in the vanity mirror and I froze instinctively. I turned to face the middle of the room - but there was nothing there. I bit my lip and blamed my imagination, but I can't say that my hopes hadn't been dashed a little. . .
I hummed to myself softly, going through the drawers and noticing that all the things in there were mine. . . I was a bit shocked and I gasped a bit when I found a picture of my father on the table. It was small, so I failed to notice it when I first came in. Soon I found the old diary that I had left when I ran off with Raoul and I began to thumb through the pages, a bit of nostalgia coming over me. I looked around again and saw the divan that I had set up as a make-shift bed for when I stayed over night; when Erik had given me the gold wedding band and my liberty.
Upon the divan was a single long-stemmed crimson rose. I remembered the story of the nightingale fondly, but with a twinge of sadness. How daft I had been to not recognize the love being offered to me! I knew what it was that Erik had been hinting at, and yet I could not fully understand the depth of it.
Someone was humming with me. I only heard it after I had recounted the story of the red rose in my mind, holding the flower in my hands as if it would shatter at any false movement. Reverently, I placed it on the vanity table and watched the mirror intently. It seemed to ripple a little, like a calm lake upset by the falling of a leaf, and I let myself imagine that a white mask was visible through it. Within the next second there was an icy blast that smelt slightly of water and a man appeared to walk through the mirror as if by magic.
We stood staring at one another for what seemed like centuries, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his fedora. His golden eyes seemed to glow preternaturally in the darkness cast by the hat, emotionless and apathetic. He broke my concentration by bowing low with a swirl of his cape, draping the cloth over his outstreched arm. I couldn't tell if the graceful gesture was sincere or sarcastic.
"Mademoiselle Daae," he said softly, "or should I say 'Vicomtesse de Chagny'? To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in my opera house?"
His melodic voice mesmerized me for a second as he tried to contain the acid of his words. Though his movements were fluid and elegant as he rose and came further into the room, they seemed a bit more forced than last I had remembered. He sat on the edge of the vanity beside the rose, throwing his cape over his shoulder. He crossed his arms and glared at me from under his hat, waiting for an answer that I didn't have. What was I supposed to say? Sorry, Erik, for doing all of those horrible things to you. But now Raoul is boring me, so take me back?
"Perhaps," he continued caustically, "you, out of pity, decided to find out how your poor Erik was faring? Or, perhaps you and your viscount have decided lay another trap to once and for all destroy the Beast upon the Lake? Or, even better," he stood at this point, seeming to grow taller as his anger flared; he hissed, "perhaps you'd like to rip to shreds what remains of my heart and mind!"
I sat heavily on the divan as a laugh devoid of any mirth escaped his lips. "Erik. . ." I whimpered, frightened beyond words.
"Well, mademoiselle? What is your answer? Have you decided to toy with your little pathetic dog? Did you want to see if your faithful little mutt would come back to you? Well, Christine? What is your answer?"
It felt as if he were towering over me, though he was on the other side of the room. I realized abruptly the truth in his words. After all I had done to him, did I truly expect for him to accept me back into his life when I bade him? The poor man! All the torture I forced him to endure, the hell I made him walk through. . . He had his back to me, his hands steepled on the vanity table; his shoulders rose and fell while he tried to control his fury. I saw the sadness in his eyes through the mirror that he avoided looking into. I saw the rage dancing like flames, leaping and crackling while it burned in his soul. And I saw that self-loathing in him when I understood that his silence was because he had regretted what he had said. . .
In spite of myself, I began to cry; softly at first, trying to hold it back, but soon the sobs sent tremors down my back. Erik spun around quickly and there too were tears in his eyes that threatened to fall. Instantly he threw himself to his knees before me, his fedora falling to the ground. I finally had a clear view of his pristine white mask that covered his face, yet I couldn't see it for the tears blurring my vision.
"Oh, Christine," he whispered, his sorrowful voice sending chills down my spine. His composure crumbled, leaving him trembling and prostrated at my feet. I had stopped crying enough to see him weeping as well, his body shaking as his gloved hand ventured to wipe away my tears. "I didn't mean what I said - please stop crying," he sobbed. "It hurts me so much when you cry. . . I didn't mean to lose myself like that. . . I. . . I just. . ."
He was about to touch my cheek, but something came over him; he forcefully put his trembling hand down, stiffly rising to his feet. Hastily, without his usual feline grace, he lurched to the mirror and pushed the spring that would open it.
Before he retreated through the passage, I heard him say, "Forgive me. . ."