Hey all there. First I'd like to apologize for not updating sooner. Health issues, betraying muses, and other situations I'd rather not bring public have kept me away from brainstorming. I was going to just leave it where it was at, but I couldn't on the threat of being beaten with my own violin. :Blank look: Right. I wouldn't like that, she's too important to get broken, so here goes. I hope I can keep the flow going and your interest. Thank you again for the reviews and constructive criticism!
"I… I want to go home."
Never was it known that five simple words could bring such mixed emotions; pain, anger, relief among them all. His eyes remained upon her, seeming to burn through her skin even as she turned away, staring down at her cup of tea. Suppressing a shudder, she closed her eyes, biting at the inside of her lip. How could she? How could she!After what he had given to her, what he had played! He had explained that Don Juan was forbidden, and now that she has heard its haunting melody she wanted to leave him!
It was too much for her, he relented. Oh, Erik, you have frightened the poor girl. From hot to cold with such sudden switches, it was a miracle that he hadn't gone mad. Moistening his lips slowly, he parted them for an intake of air, audible enough to make her flinch. Did she expect him to suddenly snap at her? She'd had a taste of his temper, before when her little betraying fingers peeled away his pride in one swift motion, and for a moment he regretted having frightened her so.
No! Damn you, no! Do not begin lamenting, that damnable little voice snarled. It was she that tied you and cut your hair, Samson! You had every right to be angered, and now... now you have only repaid her by stripping her of her own defenses. It was a convincing thought. Over his lifetime he had believed within the policy of 'an eye for an eye.' Why should he change it now? He had felt betrayed and humiliated when she had exposed him for what he was - a grotesque monster - and while he hadn't done the same, there would still be the sense of embarrassing pain, perhaps. When had he become so irreversibly cynical?
"Erik..?" Dragged from his thoughts, his wolfish eyes focused upon her again. Upon meeting her glistening gaze, everything within him froze. She was crying because of him. He hated to see her cry; she knew this, and often he wondered if she used those easily-shed tears to sway him. Tonight he wouldn't be so easily manipulated. He weighed his options as he watched her. As the oppressive silence continued, she nervously drew her fingers over the bow of the cup's side. Why is he so quiet? she thought, afraid to glance up lest that provoke his irritation that had been so easily riled many times before. His anger was a fearful thing, especially when it was preceded by an incredible, eerie calm.
Christine wasn't smart enough to have been rational when she first heard his musical voice lifted to her from the shadows of the Opera House. She wasn't smart enough to stay away from him when he was enraptured in his music, possessed by his own composition, so deeply intoxicated that he didn't sense her approach, not until it was too late. She wasn't nearly smart enough to avoid his gaze or simply hand him back his mask; her fingers had clutched it as if it was her only lifeline. Quietly looking upon her reflection within the tea's surface she lifted her hand to her neck, touching her throat gently. More than once she had wondered what would have happened if she didn't back away from him within that impenetrable silence. Still she had been trapped, held by his gaze, glinting as furiously as molten gold. Frightened beyond measure, her retreat was stopped by a wall, and with a predatory stalk, he had cornered her. She was sure that if it hadn't been for her weeping and pleas he would have strangled her then and there. His fingers were so close, cold as death against her neck. But even with that terrifying memory, the chill that coursed over her skin, making her shiver faintly, was caused by a more recent recollection.
"Bois de Boulogne," he said. This time it was she yanked from her thoughts, and she looked at him with a wide-eyed and uncomprehending stare. He met it equally, one visible brow rising.
"Wh- what?" Drawing her hand from her throat she cupped the fine porcelain between her fingers, one tucking within the small handle. His lips twitched, and she wasn't sure if he was about to smile, sneer or smirk, or perhaps all three.
"Bois de Boulogne," he repeated, patiently. "We shall go to the park, and then I will take you home." His remark seemed so awkwardly random that her mouth opened, only to snap shut again. She didn't know what to say… Wouldn't he be worried about people seeing him? About others staring? Leaning forward to place the cup upon the table, she shifted her folded legs then slipped them from beneath her, resting her feet upon the ground. He watched her as she stood, the decision weighing heavily on her mind. She wanted desperately to go home, to clear her mind of the numerous confusing things – feelings – that lingered. But at the same time, the thought of a night trip to the Bois thrilled the excitable nature of the woman-child. Worrying her fingers before her, she glanced over toward him, her brow furrowing in a faint frown. "You will… take me home afterwards?"
"That is what I had stated," he said evenly, his eyes still resting upon her. Sometimes the way his gaze seemed to lock in one place, hardly moving, unnerved her - yet at the same time it was flattering; his attention rarely wavered away from her. Berating herself for having such vain thoughts, she nodded softly. "I would have to put on something warm." He returned her nod, easing from his seated position to press to a stand. Mid-way he placed the cup upon the table, then smoothed his hands along his shirt and slacks, absently straightening out the cloth. "Yes. The moon is full; the ground is covered with snow..." His voice trailed off as his thin shoulders lifted and fell in an absent shrug. He laced his fingers together, ignoring the faint sting of tiny open cuts upon the sides of his hands. He had been through worse; much worse. The bits of split skin were but a candle to the infernos he had faced. "We will take a brougham. I am positive the driver would not question a late-night venture." If they could find a driver. With it being almost midnight, the drivers might have already sought their beds. He truly hoped not. A walk would do him – them – good.
Christine couldn't hide her smile at his words. Near midnight, under a full moon, walking upon crisp snow. It was quite romantic, like something out of a storybook. As she remained standing, her eyes lingered on Erik's form, studying the lines that made up his back and shoulders. His posture was far too graceful to be a mere man, yet tense enough that it looked as though he waited for someone to strike him. He was much like an abused feline in that respect; ready to claw, but composed enough to hold back. "I should go change then," she murmured after a long moment of silence, glancing down at the house dress she had on. While it was comfortable and warm to lounge around within, it wasn't suitable for a winter's night. He nodded again, sliding his hands into his pockets in what could have been a relaxed manner, if it wasn't for the perpetual tension strung tight across his shoulders.
Without further thought, she nodded and, smiling, rushed towards her room, quite like a child excited at being allowed to stay up past her bedtime. He watched her quietly as she hurried off to her room, and then turned his attention to the tea. Gathering the cups and placing them upon the tray, he slid it from the table and carried it back into the kitchen. Once out of the kitchen, he collected his jacket and cloak to take into his room, then began searching for something warm for himself to wear.
Once in her room, she closed the door gingerly and moved to her closet to search for a proper dress. Everything Erik had chosen for her was of the finest material, so that it was almost impossible to find one dress that was better than the rest. She finally settled on a dark blue one. Erik knew that was her favorite color, and it looked wonderful on her. Readying herself with pantalettes, chemise and corset, she layered more than a few petticoats on top of all those. The dress came after, and as she tightened it, she looked herself over in the nearby mirrors, to admire the way it fit so well even - around areas that were never measured by tailors.
As she looked at herself in the mirror, he did the same. With his thick waistcoat buttoned over an elaborately designed vest, he meticulously pinned his cravat in place, tucking the folds into the neckline of the high-cut cloth. Smoothing out the wrinkles, he looked upon his image - only to glance past to the painted likeness of the woman in the other room. Sliding his cloak from the mirror's edge, he draped it over his shoulders and began fastening it into place as he studied the ruffles of lace and silk that made up the pristine gown. Waves of expensive cloth flowed over the floor, fanning in a mermaid's tail across the unfeeling ground. Drawn in the middle to accent the figure, tiny glinting jewels dotted the shallow, dipping V of the neckline. She would have looked so beautiful in it.
"Erik? Erik!" she had cried out, thinking he had left her room. Everything had hit her at once; the travel down into the depths of the Labyrinth, the clothes that perfectly fit her form, the shoes that were comfortable upon her feet, even the room – her room – designed with a multitude of things she enjoyed, down to small keepsake baubles. It was all overwhelming. Her legs released beneath her in a swoon, and her untimely faint was saved by his sweeping arms before she had a chance to hit the floor. He remained beside her as she slept, rising only to approach a trio of covered mirrors, before them... Her image. She had been immediately sorry that she called for him, for he was caught gently brushing his fingers along the porcelain jaw of the mannequin. The look on his face... The simple bliss as he caressed that strange doll with her appearance. Was that what he wanted? To see her in a wedding gown at his side? Married to him? She felt the blood draining again as the image of his long fingers caressing the mannequin's face swam before her eyes. He was... so gentle with it, as gentle as he had been the rare times he touched her.
Startled out of his reverie, he had immediately come to her and knelt at the side of the bed. "I am here. I have not left." Though it seemed she was startled, he couldn't help but let the faintest of smiles come to his lips. In that moment of desperation, she had called for him. She had needed him. "I... I thought you'd gone..." She had glanced up to him, then over her shoulder toward the draping curtain. "No... I merely got up for a moment. My legs were becoming stiff. Unfortunately, I had not the foresight to bring a chair in here." He spoke lightly, trying to bring some humor into the awkward situation. Her glance brought an easy half-lie to his lips. "Do not mind that old thing, my dear. It is one of the prop gowns I was mending for a performance of Aida." He shrugged. "The costumers are supposed to do such things, but it gives me to do something with my time. Besides, I would not trust them with such a task."
Christine studied the gown as he spoke. It was too far away to see if it was tailored for her as the others had been. And even if it was, that could be because he expected her to play the role someday, nothing more. Still, she was unnerved by the face of his mannequin. Was it a coincidence that the gown was for her and the face was her own? She looked into the reflection, into her own eyes and the eyes of that doll, and frowned. "Is it really only for Aida?" she murmured, turning her eyes back to him, searching his face and mask. She had believed him when he said it was only because the costume girls were silly and couldn't hem to his exacting specifications – they had proven their inadequacy numerous times – but she knew it couldn't be just that. Where had he gotten such a thing? Most of all, the 'why' was still strong within her mind.
He had winced inwardly when she asked that question. Glancing away from the dress and the mannequin, he looked upon her quietly. He had told her too many lies already. Exhaling a slow breath, he closed his eyes and turned his head to look elsewhere, settling on the rich fabric of the bedspread. "No." The single word was so quiet it might have been just a breath. Shaking his head gently, he returned his eyes to the mannequin and studied it for a few moments. There was nothing else to say. He simply waited for her reaction. Horror, disgust? Laughter, perhaps? He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.
Though he had looked away, she still studied him and the disappointment in his soft, amber-hued eyes. His answer was soft and simple, and he didn't need to explain any further. Her mind was already running wild. She gave no real reaction, other than frightened silence and the soft trembling of her body. Did he truly mean to bring her here only to sing, or did he have something else entirely in mind? Did he expect her to wear that gown, to live out this fantasy with him? What priest in all the world would marry them, once they looked upon his face? Yet, he had never tried to force her to do anything she had not wanted to do. He had offered her the chance for freedom back to her world of light earlier by asking if she wanted him to be her Angel still. The only time he had been anything other than sincere was when she provoked his anger – something that was entirely her fault. She felt her tears and wiped them quickly, not wanting him to see, though the hitch as her breathing caught gave them away. "Does it...have to be in my room?" she asked tentatively, studying the way the blankets curled about her feet. She drew them close, her knees bending toward her chest as if she had expected the... thing to come alive and attack her feet. It was a childish thought, but one she had nevertheless; too many stories of goblins and ghouls, perhaps.
"No... No, of course not." He shook his head gently, and pressing up to a stand, stepping over to where the mannequin stood. "I'll rid of it immediately." There was something hurt and cold hidden within his words, perhaps because he had noticed the growing tears and her trembling, knowing that the mere idea of wearing such a thing around him was the cause of it; the audacity that he'd even dare to think of it. Him, wed? To her, of all people? A dream – far-fetched, silly and impossible. Curling an arm around the mannequin's waist, he lifted it easily from the floor with a slight scrape of the metallic base and made his way for the door. He'd put it someplace she wouldn't have to see it. His room was probably the only place she wouldn't go.
She wanted to take her words back the moment she heard the scrape of the mannequin's base. Erik hadn't been sloppy any other time, and that just seemed... strange; off, somehow. "You don't have to... to..." She turned her teary eyes to him, fingers poised at her mouth. "You don't have to destroy it," she managed to whisper, misunderstanding his words. "It's only... well, I can't bear to wake up and find ... it looking back at me." She felt even worse for going on, but couldn't stop herself. Her fingers trembled as she shifted, looking away, half-wishing he would go with it now and throw it in the lake, wedding gown and all. Or burn it so the horrid thing could never be seen again. "It frightens me, Erik."
A wry twist came to his lips, reflected within the smooth surface of the mirror. "Yes. Yes of course it does," he murmured to himself. Tugging the soft hide gloves upon his hands, he curled his fingers then drew away from the mirror to make his way back into the living room. She was already standing there, bundled warmly and ready to leave. After giving her a slow glance, ensuring she was well-protected from the cold, he nodded gently then made his way toward the library and the exit that was secreted within. "Come," he muttered. She gave him a curious glance, then looked over her shoulder to the portcullis before following without argument. He knew this world better than she, and far be it from her to suggest that they should go the 'usual' way.
He had once said that mirrors were a part of his life, even if he disliked the thought of looking within one – they were a reminder of the curse he bore. Much about him was still magical within Christine's mind, and when he had gone to the mirror on the wall, opening it as if it was a door, she couldn't quiet the soft sound of delight. It slipped gently from her lips, drawing his eyes to her before he motioned to the darkness that lay beyond. Bowing her head gently, she stepped past him and into the hold of the enshrouding shadows, which only became darker when he closed the mirrored door behind him. Though she couldn't see her hand before her face, he saw her clearly. Hesitating, his fingers hovered just upon the outside of her elbow, then he touched, taking a loose hold to lead her through the passage.
"How many ways out are there?" she whispered, wincing at the dreadful way her voice echoed against the walls and low ceiling. The darkness was harmless. It was what was within the dark that worried her. But with him, the one she had most reason to fear, she felt strangely safe. Erik wouldn't harm her, she knew; even if it seemed he had come close to doing so before, it was only because he had been severely provoked. "Not many." The deep thrum of his voice vibrated gently within her chest, and she held her breath for a split second, then exhaled in a gentle rush. Trusting him to lead her, she sought out his arm with the soft wrap of her hands and closed her eyes. It was so dark that it made no difference if they were open or not. So dark that she failed to notice the way he was looking upon her as he walked, failed to realize the incredible urge he felt to sweep down and taste the ambrosia of her lips.
Little did he know... Christine was hoping he would.
