The last chapter was inspired by a song, "Moonlit Stroll," made by a friend of mine, "Angelinme."
Soft was the breeze that caressed the glen, making his loose cloak shudder gently, flickering across the ground and his feet alike. He said nothing at first, but allowed his half-smile to speak for him before he glanced away from her and looked slowly around the clearing. "They found out about you. Have to be much quieter. Perhaps..." Trailing off thoughtfully, he nodded, his golden gaze dropping to her again. "Perhaps we can try again tomorrow evening. The moon will still be full. I am not sure if we will be successful, though. It is usually only upon the very first full moon that they are out." He frowned gently and, shifting his freezing fingers upon the chunk of ice, he lifted his free hand, drawing close to her cheek – changing his mind at the last minute. "You enjoyed seeing them?"
"Yes," she answered immediately, her gaze still resting contentedly on his, hardly noting the progress of his hand. Slowly she came back to herself, leaving with great sadness the dream which he'd so beautifully spun her with threads of moonlight. For a moment all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Oh, Erik..." She wasn't sure what she needed to say to him. At last she burst out, "How did you...?" She had seen puppet shows and magicians of sorts with her father, but none of them had been magicians in the way that Erik was. They'd only taken illusions and made them seem real -- Erik took real things and breathed them into illusions.
The backs of his fingers grazed against a lock of hair that peeked from her cowl. Pulling his hand back, he shook his head, another sly smile on his lips. "Do not ask. Do not allow the magic to be destroyed for you, or they can never return. Once you open your eyes and look, you can never see again." Tipping his head back, he looked up toward the moon, closing his eyes as a few random flakes fell against his skin. He drew his head down to look at her, adjusting the lay of the cloak, drawing his arms beneath and discreetly dropping the ice. "Are you ready to return home? It is quite chilly out here, and I would not wish for you to become sick."
Christine blinked a few more times, slowly, and then shook her head, as if to rid herself of the lasting effects of his spell. It saddened her to come back to reality so quickly, though they might've been here for hours with only a few minutes passing in her mind. Finally, she looked away from him to the ground and moved a few steps closer, the tips of her gloved fingers straying to the tip of her nose. She glanced around slowly, taking in the soft, serene quality of the park this late at night. Even without the fairies and nymphs, it was lovely. Even without summer, the darkness was beautiful to her.
He didn't know if she'd find this reality beautiful, but he did. There was something simplistic about its appearance, yet the snow set it off toward the majestic. He stepped away from her with a gathering of his cloak's hood and pulled it back over his head. He wasn't ready to go just yet, but if she desired it, he'd do so; she was a lot more susceptible to the cold than he. Another gentle breeze kicked in, and he closed his eyes against it, one side of his cloak flicking back, half spreading akin to a bat's wing before settling down again, placidly swirling against the side of his foot.
The snow was still falling around them. She lifted her hand, catching a few of the flakes in her palm, watching them disappear. "May we stay just a moment longer, Erik? I don't want to leave just yet, if you don't mind." Glancing to him over her shoulder, she smiled. "It's quite beautiful here. This place, I mean. Not only the park..." Looking back down at her hand, she blinked away the snow that even dared to cling to her thick eyelashes. "Just here..."
"With you…" he murmured, then raised his voice slightly. "Yes. Yes, we can remain. It is beautiful. I have come here often, to simply... get away from the caverns, to breathe in the fresh air; to feel it upon my face." Half of it... Even though this place was secreted away, he still wouldn't remove his mask - that just wouldn't happen. He didn't dare take the chance that some vagabond would somehow manage to find this place. His back to her still, he kept his eyes closed and chin tipped down. He might have been mistaken for a statue, he was so still and silent.
She studied his stance, moving closer. "Do you never remove your mask?" At that moment, it seemed a shame to her that he had to wear it at all. If not for his reaction when I removed it... The memory of the sight of it still weighed heavily on her mind: the nose that wasn't there; the sunken eye that she could almost see behind the mask; the malformed cheek; the lip that curled and spread; the muscles and veins and blood and skull... She shuddered, though more in pity now than fear.
She'd shattered his serenity with that single question. He steeled himself and miraculously did not flinch, giving little to no reaction. He cracked open his eyes, lifting his head slightly and turning his glance towards her. "Some things are better left unseen." It didn't answer her question… or maybe it did. He never removed the mask when there were people around - not that he made it a habit to keep much company - even when alone he wore it. It was better than having to face his image whenever he passed a mirror; he'd lost too many mirrors that way. Sleep wasn't a discomfort. He'd gotten used to the feel of it upon his face, even if it did rub already-raw skin, making it more so.
His eyes followed her as she moved slowly to stand in front of him, studying the mask she'd so heartlessly ripped from his face, shattering whatever trust had been built between them before that moment. Even if I broke the same trust by telling her I was her Angel in the first place. "It doesn't frighten me anymore," she whispered. He didn't find that an invitation to remove the thing now - it could very well have only been her innocence talking, forgetting what it really looked like, having grown used to the mask that hid it. Her fingers lifted, sinking beneath his hood. He held his breath, shoulders stiffening, drawing his head back a fraction and regarding her curiously. Moistening his lips, he glanced to her hand, tensing further. "It frightens me," he responded quietly, his voice no more than a breath. He remained motionless, frozen, as her fingers touched the smooth porcelain.
The unmistakable strain in his voice gave her pause. Would she have done it if not for that? Erik would never know, for just as slowly as her fingers had curled, they gave a warm caress to the smooth porcelain contours before dropping away. "I'm sorry." For lifting the mask in the first place, and for asking to again just now... And perhaps a million other things.
Before her hand drifted too far, his cold fingers clasped loosely around her wrist. Raising her hand, he reached up and took a hold of the cowl's edge. Easing it back from his head, he pressed her fingers loosely to the mask, slowly releasing her wrist and lowering his hand to his side. Silent, he kept his eyes on hers. Please. Please, take it off. Take it and accept me for who I am. A man... not a monster.
Closing her eyes, she felt the press of tears. Opening them again, they met Erik's, searchingly, reading every bit of tired loneliness in his heavy gaze. Hardly knowing if she could do it or not, with or without being horrified by what lay behind it, her fingers trembled at the curve of his masked cheek. Yet she did nothing, neither moving to take it off or move her hand away. For long moments of silence as snow gathered on their still shoulders, her fingers remained tenderly curled on the white porcelain in the very place Erik had pressed them.
It felt like an eternity - no, much longer than that - that they stood there, looking upon each other, her eyes filling with tears and his own heavily weighted, tempestuous with emotions that startled her. Fear was one of them. He had any number of things to be afraid of; mostly, her rejection. Often he wondered just why... Why had this woman changed his life, turned it upside-down and right-side in, without any sign of it straightening? He saw in her something he'd never had in his own life: innocence, and peace. Unable to break the silence, he shifted his weight, trying to rid himself of the burning tension, his hands curling loosely at his sides.
This was the change in him that had her worried. The torrent of emotions was too great for him to fully sort them out. She wanted nothing more than to pull the mask away as if it didn't matter. He was just a man, like any other man in the world - but she couldn't. What frightened her was not what lay beneath the mask, but what might happen between them if she could look upon his face without fear. What else could happen that hasn't already, Christine?
"Oh, Erik..." came the familiar whisper when she couldn't find the right words. Carefully, her fingers curled tighter, bravely pulling at his mask, but she just couldn't do it. It made her very breath catch to think of it, her heartbeat rising. It wasn't his face, and she wanted to tell him that, but she couldn't form the right words.
The anticipation was nearly killing at him, eating at every fiber of his patience, but he didn't rush her. He didn't even consider doing so. The uneasiness settled deeper, to the marrow of his bones. He dampened his lower lip again, absently, a bit of the deformed upper slipping briefly into view. Though nearly rigid with anxiety, he was also simply curious what she would do. Would she remove the mask, or walk away - proving that she was unable to look upon his face without being disgusted? Drawing in a gentle breath, he released it with a close of his eyes. Cracking them open again, he brought his dull amber gaze to her face, scanning over it before meeting her eyes again. There had been little to no change in the myriad feelings warring within him, leaving him conflicted, confused, and frustrated.
"Could he ever give you what I have?" His voice was unexpected, and her fingers flinched lightly against his masked cheek. Her eyes fell to her hand, then lifted again to his as she bit gently at her lower lip. "Could he ever make fantasy become reality?" Breaking his statuesque stance, he stepped closer, the intensity of his gaze pressing her back. Raising a hand, there was only a slight hesitation before he brushed his fingers against her cheek, passing it along the curve of her jaw. Her breath shuddered gently, and she found her body betraying her as her chin lifted, giving him more skin to caress; to her disappointment, his touch went no further than just beneath her ear. "Could he ever give you all that you desired and more?" So soft, the words were almost nonexistent as they drifted upon the soft breeze that surrounded him. "Erik, ple--" She broke off with a soft intake of air as her back met the unyielding surface of a tree. Had she been backing up this whole time? So caught within his gaze, in his words, she hadn't noticed.
"Why can you not love me, like you do him?" Like I do you...
Christine wasn't prepared for the wave of feeling that burst through her chest, spreading to her throat, choking it with tears; a pain that was almost tangible, and so raw that she could taste it, salty and stinging against her tongue. The white of the mask lay mockingly beneath her fingertips, glowing through the glistening layer of tears in her eyes. Raising his hand, he cupped his fingers against the back of hers, easing the tips toward the edge of the smooth porcelain until they dipped just beneath, barely grazing along the distorted skin. He stopped her hand there. She wished that he would have taken her further, for she still did not have the strength to remove the mask herself. As his hand lowered, she caressed the covered curve of his cheek with her thumb before her fingers fell away altogether.
"I can't," she mouthed gently, removing her eyes from his. Her hands lifted, clutching before her breast so tightly that her knuckles were white beneath her gloves. I can't remove the mask? Can't love him?, she questioned herself, breathing in deeply to get rid of the ache in her lungs. Her eyes closed, sparing her seeing the agonized pain that flashed within his before they too were shut. He stepped away from her, taking a moment to compose himself, allowing her to breathe more easily. Both hands remained at her breast, right above her rapidly beating heart, as she turned to watch him move silently past. Trembling, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. It was like observing a fire started by your own hands; watching it burn out of control, consuming the thing you most treasure. She couldn't look away, and yet he wouldn't look back at her. She bit her lip to hold back the treacherous tears, yet still they spilled over her cheeks. Why did a face matter so much? She knew she couldn't still be afraid of it, for it was only a face. Scarred and defiled, but still just a face. He was a man underneath that mask, but she couldn't bring herself to see that.
Just how could a person be so drowned by misery and consumed by anger at the same time? It was a delicate balance, but he managed to pull it off well enough that neither predominated - if either showed at all. Through it all, he felt just so very... numb. Tired. Would anyone ever be able to view him without disgust? By God, all he wanted was to be needed by someone - and not just because he enthralled them, or that he was training their voice. He drew closer to the wood, pausing near a tree. He placed his hand against its surface, resting his shoulder upon the cold bark. Silently he looked out at the distance, trying to regain the sense of peace he had so often experienced here. He dragged in a slow breath, its release bringing a light mist billowing about the front of the cowl.
Frowning heavily, Christine slowly drew slightly closer to him, stopping some distance away. With every silent step she took in a quick breath, followed by a nervous swallow. Unable to bring herself even to apologize - for what could she possibly say - she watched his back draw tight, his anguished breathing seeming flushed right out of his angry, miserable soul. Covering her mouth, she continued her slow walk towards him, not wanting to break his silent reverie - but also needing to hear him say something to reassure her that she hadn't done what she feared she had. Would he cease coming for her after this? Would he never sing for her, or she for him? She felt her soul would surely die without him.
The hood shifted faintly, turning as he heard the soft crunch of the snow with her approach. Looking forward again, he absently watched a droplet of water slide down the side of an icy pillar before being finally released to fall towards the snow. "You are ready to go?" His chin tipped up, allowing the cool breeze to flow against his face. Lowering his free hand he clasped it against the side of his cloak, gathering the hem loosely and pulling it around himself. Sliding his hand from the tree, he shifted towards her, resting his back against the frozen bark.
The change in him amazed her. His shoulders straightened, and he rose up to his full height. Even his eyes seemed to hold no trace of anger - though perhaps that was because she dropped her gaze guiltily as his fell upon her. Other emotions wrote themselves on top of the guilt; misery, sadness, pity, anger at her own naivete. He was no monster. Magician, singer, artist, musician, genius, yes... but not a monster. Unable to draw her voice from her throat, she simply nodded.
"We will come again. Perhaps you will be able to see more than just fairies. I believe I saw a unicorn once, white as freshly fallen snow." Pressing away from the tree, he started up the path. Adjusting the cowl, shielding his face completely, he dropped his hands, crossing his arms loosely over his stomach. He was used to wearing masks; this was just one of many. He didn't want her to see him in anguish, and did not want her pity.
She followed him with another silent nod. She took little happiness from his assurance that they would return. Even the memory of the fairies and their dancing song couldn't bring a smile to her pale lips. It didn't matter that he hid his pain from her; she could feel it. Even as well hidden as he tried to keep it, it wrapped itself firmly around her innocent heart. Drawing her hood up, she toyed with the fingers of her gloves as they walked in silence.
Perhaps because he was deep in thought, the walk back seemed to take longer for him than the journey in. No words passed between them, no more prancing fairies or frolicking nymphs. All was dull and dreary. When they reached the carriage, he lifted a hand and unlatched both the door and the stairs with a scraping rake of metal to metal. Standing along its side, he lifted his hand to help her into the cab. Glancing away and over the grounds, he took in the innocent sight of the park. One day I will savor its surroundings in daylight. Perhaps it wasn't the truth, but even a creature of the darkness such as he could dream. Turning his head again, with his back towards the brightness of the moon, his shadow turned to look in her direction.
Her fingers slipped into his easily. Her eyes followed his gaze for a moment, leaving her fingers in his palm, trying to see what he saw. To her, it was the park, any park; it might have been anywhere. But Erik... what did he see in such a world of darkness? She lifted her eyes to his, meeting them before stepping up into the carriage.
He climbed in behind her, pulling up the stairs and shutting the door as he brought himself to rest upon the cushioned bench. "Back to your post, Monsieur," he called out gently to the driver, who, after working heat back into his limbs, snapped the reins to start the horses off. As the carriage made its rocking way down the cobbled streets, Erik maintained his silence while watching the snow-covered landscape, observing her from the corner of his eye. He could not know how sorely confused she felt, how conflicted. If only she would speak her mind more clearly; her 'Oh, Eriks' could only say so much, and left him acutely at a loss.
Christine laid her head back and closed her eyes, the jostle of the carriage swaying her tired body to and fro. Every few seconds she forced her eyes to open, looking upon the ceiling or out the window until she couldn't keep them open any longer. She was up far later than she was accustomed, and after a day like this, was nearly overcome with fatigue, mental and emotional as well as physical.
