A/N: I may not be uploading as many chapters as I'd like because: A,) I have to go to practice with the school marching band and B,) I'm afraid I have a slight case of writer's block. I don't want to upload chapters that were thrown together simply to get them up; I want them to be the best I can write. . .
Erik:
She was truly back. . . she wasn't just some apparition from the cruel dreams I had. My perfect, wonderful angel was back! I didn't imagine the delicateness of her skin, nor how silky her brown curls had been. Those bright eyes watching me. . . I had missed that the most - the shy way she looked at me. Her smile was as enchanting as ever; she was still beautiful beyond compare. Her voice still rang in my ears like fragile bells, echoed through my soul with that quiet strength. My heart ached for her, by my mind kept it at bay.
"Christine doesn't love you," I reminded myself slowly, my eyes suddenly burning. "She wants only her Angel of Music. . ."
Despite my efforts to stop it, a tear fell from my eye and cascaded down the white porcelain of my mask. I brushed it away forcefully, cursing my own weakness. I sat up from where I lay in my coffin and took a quivering breath. The unbidden memory of her soft lips on mine forced itself on me. I could still feel her fingers on my arms; I remembered how our bodies had seemed to meld together, as if we became one. Still I could recall the graceful curve of her back, the elegant slope of her small shoulders. . .
I would never have that again, I realized ruefully. In fact, had I not committed that kidnapping, I wouldn't have had it at all. She had given me that kiss to save her boy - not because she. . . not because she actually cared for me. It was a bribe; payment for releasing Raoul de Chagny. Luckily for her, it had worked. . .
My fists were clenched as I climbed out of my coffin, and I was gritting my teeth to keep myself from crying again. Christine would never be able to look past my grotesque visage; I hadn't expected her to. But for fleeting moments I pretended that she could look past this loathsome countenance, imagined that she would love me for myself and not hate me for my face. The only way I could hope for her affection was to come to her as her mentor and protector.
So if it was her Angel of Music she wanted, then it was the Angel she would get. . .
The next day passed unbearably slowly. I spent the time playing my violin as much as humanly possible. I added a few more lines to the song I had previously been working on. Impatiently I waited for the hours to pass, watching the clock in expectant dread and earnest. I truly was looking forward to our lesson, but I hated that I would have to relive the burning passion that had to be contained. I had long since convinced myself that she was not - nor ever had been - mine. . .
. . . to have and to hold. . .
. . . to love and to cherish. . .
. . . till death do us part. . .
I laughed at my sentiments bitterly, yet somewhere was that uneasy misery that always dwelled in me when I thought of Christine. I found myself sitting in the room I dubbed as her own, my fingers twisting themselves around the wedding veil. Timidly, I brushed the material against my bare cheek, as if I could still gather the warmth that came from her body, as if I could still smell her hair. Would this be as close as I would ever get to touching her?. . .
I waited for her behind the mirror, rather impatiently, violin in hand. Half-heartedly I tuned the instrument and began playing random notes. She was late. It wouldn't have been the first time - in fact, I had been expecting it - but for some reason, I was annoyed by it. She no longer had to fear the irrational wrath of an angel, for she knew now that her guardian was nothing more than a mere man. After about fifteen more minutes of waiting, she rushed into the room and shut the door quickly. Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing deeply. Quite obviously, she had been running - or at least rushing to get to her dressing room.
"Angel?" she called out softly. I sighed inwardly, unreasonably disappointed that she used that soubriquette.
I drew the bow over the violin's strings, coaxing the note out of the instrument. A smile appeared on her lips and she sat down on the divan. "You're late," I said softly.
"I know I am, forgive me. The managers were trying to get me to take over the leading role."
"And you didn't take it?"
She shrugged her shoulders simply. "We're performing Faust this time and. . ." She looked at me through the mirror as she trailed off. I sighed as a way of showing my understanding. "Could you come out here?" she asked suddenly. "I don't feel comfortable talking to a mirror."
I laughed quietly. "You seemed quite all right with it for three months," I scoffed gently. Nonetheless, I walked into the room and set the violin against the wall. There was a minute of resounding silence as we stared at eachother; I felt as if my heart would burst from love of her, and I could barely keep my emotions in check. I wanted her so badly! I wanted to touch her cheek; I wanted to brush away that lock on her forehead. If only she could love me in return. . .
Her voice snapped me out of my reverie. She gasped softly, standing to come up to me. Her fingers grazed my left cheek, the concern in her eyes obvious. I cursed myself for not having the foresight to where one of the many full masks in my expansive collection. . . "What happened to your face?"
Well, I thought bitterly, I was born with a hideous deformity that even my own mother feared. . .
I winced suddenly when her finger gently traced one of the larger scratches on my left cheek. Embarassed, she took her hand away, but her gaze never left me. "It's nothing," I said dismissively, but I knew that should try to pursue the subject later. Christine sat down at the vanity and waited for me to sit on the divan. Of course, I remained standing, crossing my arms deliberately. "What are you doing back here?" I asked, keeping the edge out of my voice. "Wouldn't the Vicomte de Chagny be unhappy, to say the least, that I'm here with you?"
Christine shrugged again as she toyed with a comb. "He. . . suggested I come back. To work here, I mean. . ."
"How kind of him. How does he know you won't run-off with one of the other chorus members? Or that you won't marry some other man?"
"Because he trusts me -"
"Ah, but does he trust me?"
She became uneasy; I realized too late that my voice had contained too much annoyance and mockery to be taken lightly. It seemed as if we were silent for hours before she began to talk. "We've put our engagement on hiatus."
More deafening silence.
I was too stunned for words as she waited for my reply. My mind began to buzz as what seemed like millions of thoughts forced themselves on me. You mean, I screamed silently, I gave everything up - you, my sanity, my life - for nothing? I wondered vaguely how much she must hate me for interfering with her life. Surely if I hadn't been so insanely obsessed with her, she would have already married her boy ages ago. If she hadn't pitied me, she would have already left the Opera House - she would have left Paris all together. . .
With more calm than I felt, I picked up the violin and drew the bow over the strings once more. "Mademoiselle," I said quietly, with dull politeness, once again taking on the role of the teacher, "If you so please, I would like to begin with the last act of Faust from the invocation of the angels. . ."