The Final Threshold
Summary: a different version of the Don Juan performance.
Note: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera by either Andrew Lloyd Webber or Joel Schumacher,
nor Gaston Leroux's original work
Disclaimer: The lyrics here are from the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber. They are not my own, but I felt the need to include them in my story, because to me they are intrinsically linked and essential to the storyline here developped. Likewise, they are the key to understanding the feelings they provoked in the character's persona. I apologize profusely if anyone feels they do not belong here. There is no copyright infringement intended.
Christine was waiting backstage for her cue to enter as Aminta, thinking back on her conversation with Raoul in the Opera chapel. How was it that she was so torn between two men? For even now she doubted. Raoul, her dear childhood friend, promised her security and freedom from Erik, and he laid his heart on a platter for her to take. Yet even as she felt drawn into his reasoning, understanding and, yes, loving him, she could not help but think back upon her fallen Angel of Music. How could a voice so beautiful inhabit such a distorted body? How could such a passionate soul yet be intact after all the years of social ostracism?
For Erik was a builder of beauty. She saw it everyday, in the Opera he had helped Monsieur Garnier to build. She felt it everyday, in the way her voice took flight to unknown heights. And her heart wept silently for a man so shunned by society he had stopped to live by its rules. Yes, he had murdered, and yes, it was wrong. But who could really blame him, if all that he had known was contempt and violence? In a secret place of her heart, she understood him. Was not society to be held responsible – at least to some extent – for the unkind treatment it had bestowed on a child whose sole guilt was to be disfigured?
And if society thought him a monster, without any chance of appeal, why wouldn't he act like one?
But she was jolted from her reflections by Madame Giry, calling her to attention. It was time.
She entered the stage, and left Christine Daaé behind. She became Aminta, and nothing else existed but the Phantom's Don Juan Triumphant. Nothing else existed but Erik's words.
Demurely, she sat down, laying a basket of blood-red roses before her.
No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy!
No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!
She waited, though she became uncomfortable at the way her gypsy costume kept slipping off her shoulder. With a flawless gesture, she gracefully put it back in its proper place.
Behind her, she heard Passarino leave the stage, and a shuffle of feet indicated Don Juan had come back. But those were not Piangi's heavy footsteps. These were lighter, almost soundless. She wondered what was happening, yet she could not betray any nervousness. The show was en route, and nothing could stop it now.
But when she first heard Don Juan's song, she could not help but recognise the voice.
With a quiet gasp, she turned back, to find that she was right.
It was him.
You have come here, in pursuit of
your deepest urge, in pursuit of
that wish, which till now has been silent, silent…
He brought a finger over his mouth, to ensure her silence in another matter, yet Christine in that instant would have been hard pressed to make any sound come out of her mouth, so stunned was she by Erik's sudden appearance. He had come, oh! yes, he had come. In pure Opera Ghost style, where they least expected him.
She could not help but smile at his cunning.
But the song continued. And Erik circled her as he went on.
I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge
– in your mind you've already succumbed to me
dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me –
now you are here with me, no second thoughts:
you've decided, decided…
And she had. She had succumbed to him, when she tought he was her Angel of Music. As his voice again took hold of her senses, she felt herself on the verge of giving in again. This man before her held too great a power over her, and, know it as she might, she could not find a way of getting out.
Past the point of no return – no backward glances:
our games of make-believe are at an end…
Yes, the games were at an end. In this moment, Christine understood the message. Erik knew. He knew of everything. He knew of the trap. He even knew the part she was supposed to take in his demise, and his eyes bore through her, laying her soul bare before him.
Past all thought of "if" or "when" – no use resisting:
abandon thought and let the dream descend…
In a dream she was, floating, attracted to him like a magnet, not being able to take her eyes off him. Unwittingly, she had crossed the distance separating them, and she realised she no longer cared if her costume was loose in the shoulders. She was past that, burned by the intensity of his aquamarine eyes.
What raging fire shall flood the soul?
What rich desire unlocks its door?
What sweet seduction lies before us?
And when he took her hands in is, it was not with his customary coldness. His hands were scalding hot, and hers cold. He caressed her, and she was helpless beneath his touch, feeling shivers going up her spine and down her arms, where his lightest brush felt like a path of burning fire.
Then he released her, yet he still held her gaze locked with his.
Past the point of no return, the final threshold –
what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn?
Beyond the point of no return…
Christine remembered it was now her time to sing. She went back to her original position, seeking Raoul's comforting gaze with her own. Yet after Erik's, his sky-blue eyes seemed strangely dull, and for the life of her, she couldn't feel any warmth from them, not after seeing the stark passion of her Angel's.
Tentatively, she began her song.
You have brought me to that moment
where words run dry, to that moment
where speech disappears into silence, silence…
She tried to conjure Raoul's face as she sang, but, try as she might, she could not. Another took its place, one that had sung her of the music of the night, one that had haunted her every dreams since she had came to the Opera and met her Angel of Music. One that looked at her as though she were his last hope of salvation on this Earth.
She was shaken, but she kept singing.
I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why…
In my mind, I've already imagined
our bodies entwining defenceless and silent –
and now I am here with you: no second thoughts,
I've decided, decided…
Christine desperately tried to imagine Raoul and her in bed, bodies joined, but her mind was blank. Instead, vivid images of Erik disrobing her came to mind, Erik kissing her with his lopsided lips, taking off her corset, her chemise and playing on her body as he mastered this last intrument of pleasure.
She shut her eyes against the images, but they only came more easily.
Understanding at last the meaning behind the words she was singing, she unleashed her soul into her song.
Past the point of no return – no going back now:
our passion-play has now, at last, begun…
It had indeed begun. No pretenses, nothing. Only Erik and her. Only their passion was of import in that instant.
They climbed the opposite stairs, and it seemed to Christine the distance was too great between them. She had to go close to him, to touch him, to feel him.
Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question:
how long should we two wait, before we're one?
And Christine felt it, this urgency, this all-encompassing passion. She had forgotten Raoul. Only Erik mattered to her now, only his searching eyes, roaming over her body, devouring her, making her shudder with anticipation and longing.
When will the blood begin to race?
The sleeping bud burst into bloom?
When will the flames, at last, consume us?
Her voice broke as she sung the last verse, as she made Aminta's longing hers. She awaited a reprobing glare from her teacher, but it did not come. Instead, his gaze became hooded with a carefully hidden fire.
They had reached the sides of the bridge. In a sweeping move, Erik let go of his cape, shedding all disguise from the crowd below, standing straight and proud before her. Christine knew, then, that she would never be able to forget this man, who set at once heart, body and soul ablaze. She knew for certain that if she married Raoul a part of her would be extinct forever, a part of her that only answered to her Angel's call.
She was as much surprised as she was overjoyed when he joined her for the last part of her aria.
Past the point of no return, the final threshold –
the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn…
We've passed the point of no return…
He twirled her in his arms, his hands at last upon her waist, the exposed skin of her décolletage, her shoulders, her arms, the heat seeping through her corset. She trembled in his arms as she realised she was irrevocably, inexorably, unescapably his. Raoul had been a knight in shining armour, answering Little Lotte's cry for comfort and guidance. Yet Erik… Erik made her come alive with a woman's desire, too strong to be denied or quelled.
It was time. Time to say good-bye to a child's illusions. Time to become a woman grown.
She looked into his eyes, expecting a signal.
And a signal he gave her.
He opened his mouth, and sang something that wasn't in the opera libretto.
Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…
Lead me, save me from my solitude…
Say you want me with you, here beside you…
Anywhere you go, let me go, too –
Christine, that's all I ask of …
He never got the chance to say "you", for Christine had raised herself on the point of her toes, taken his head in her hands, and gone up to press a chaste yet meaningful kiss upon her Angel's lips.
She smiled in her kiss, and coming back down, she followed his example.
And she sang.
I will share with you one love, one lifetime...
I'll lead you, save you from your solitude...
I do want you with me, here at my side
Anywhere you go, I'll go with you –
Erik, that's all I ask of you…
While she sang, her fingers had carefully untied the ribbons holding the mask covering Erik's face. With gentle, calm hands, she slowly took it off his face, grateful when, too stunned by her sudden acceptance,he did not react. Completely oblivious to the crowd's horrified whispers below, she caressed every inch of his face, accepting him, all of him.
The sheer force of his stare would have knocked her off her feet had she not been prepared.
She nodded.
Then she felt his lips claim her in a rough yet tender embrace, making her knees week with anticipation.
Never had anything felt more right.
She was home.
With her Angel.
A bereft Raoul de Chagny did not understand his Little Lotte's sudden change of heart.
He accompanied her friend Meg Giry through her search of the Phantom's lair. They had taken nothing, except Erik's violin, his money, and some clothes.
One mirror lay shattered on the side, revealing an escapeway. On the threshold were a white porcelain mask and a blood-red rose, a white ribbon attached to it.
Understanding it was Christine's final goodbye, they mended their hearts together, eventually forming a relationship of some sort. But Raoul still thought of his Little Lotte often, of the things they'd never do, never truly able to put her from his mind.
Erik and Christine disappeared from the public eye that night.
Though, if one would have cared to ask an ageing Madame Giry, she would have told one that they were quite safe, and that they had gone where no one would know them, or harm their feelings.