His body lay sprawled across the organ's bench, barely moving. He did not stir, did not even appear to breathe; those burning eyes peered into the emptiness without blinking. Memories were wrapped around his mind, carting him off to an entirely different world...
The red velvet of his outfit clung to him, his cape swirling out from his body as he spun in a flawlessly-accomplished dance step. The plume on his hat swayed with the rhythm of his motions, the death-head's mask glinting eerily. Many eyes were on him, but he knew of only one pair: the sapphire blue jewels staring up at him, entranced, through the black domino's mask.
Christine looked resplendent, as usual, and even more so considering her immaculate placement in his arms. One hand gripped his, the other resting lightly on his shoulder; his own other hand was on her hip, and a little on the small of her back, drawing her ever closer to him as they moved in their dance. Another flourish of the cape, as they twirled through the gaily-bedecked crowds, other couples parting to make a path for them. No one wanted to touch the Red Death.
No one except his Angel.
They danced throughout the night, never once parting. They danced until Christine looked ready to faint from exhaustion, and Erik's pulse was racing uncomfortably. With a final squeeze of hands--for what other sign of affection was proper?--he made his final dramatic exit, leaving her to find her own way to her dressing room. He had met her there, had sung to her.
Fate links thee to me for ever and a day...
"Here I am, Erik. I am ready. But you are late."
Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!
Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!
Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!
Bless the child, for she had come to him! She had followed without question, without hesitation. She was sleeping, now; the masquerade had tired her. The dancing had tired her. He had paranoid theories about her young man tiring her, as well, but he refused to allow his mind to indulge in those thoughts. Consciousness had followed that route too many times; he was as familiar with those images as he was with the red notes that comprised his opera. She had retired, and he...
And now he lay where he had fallen, uncomfortably splayed upon the bench, only half-dressed. He had removed the Red Death costume, removed his mask, and begun putting on more suitable clothing, when the organ had beckoned to him with an elegantly-curled finger. He had obeyed its command for attention, and lasted through nearly two acts of his Don Juan, before being forced to admit exhaustion, and lying down on the bench to rest, for he had felt he could not make it two steps away from the bench.
Rest had not come.
Rest had been denied him, by the memory of those eyes...
He had danced with her like any suitor with his intended, at any masquerade. He could still feel the warmth of her against him--oh, that warmth... That was a sensation he had never thought he would know. She gave him warmth, gave and gave until he felt as warm as she was.
It only lasted while she was near him, but it was enough.
In his mind, he revisited the sensation, again and again, until he had nearly memorized the feeling of hot blood and sweaty skin, until he could almost convince himself that he was as living as she was.
His living bride.
His. Living. Bride.
His.