Author's note: To all of my readers/reviewers: I love you all! This chapter's a tad long so do excuse me. I know I've described Erik many times before, but this chapter shall be from Christine's POV, sort of.I won't switch to the actual POV's for another good few chapters or so, as the tension builds, I will introduce the characters' monologues.Unmasking won't take place until the next chapter, the night of Christine's star performance, I'll be introducing Raoul as well, in that regard I stayed true to the actual story. It's just that I wanted to give a little more depth and background to Erik and Christine's relationship –or lack there of- . Chantal, I'm a huge E/C shipper as well, those two are worlds apart, united by music, perfect! BUT…but, we shall see in the end if Erik's -grotesque/dark/obsessive- love conquers Christine's heart, as his music conquered her mind…Off topic, but that last scene in the movie always blows me away, such passion, such undying devotion...-sighs- anyway, on with the story.
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, never have, never will. Gerry Butler though, I dunno...-swoons-
"Love surfeits not, Lust likes a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies."
-Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis
"Music is well said to be the speech of angels; in fact, nothing among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine. It brings us near to the infinite."
-Thomas Carlyle
"And hell open'd its doors,
Yet what was 'fore my eyes
But if not the brightest Light?"
-Theatre of Tragedy
As Erik and Christine descended further down, darkness lifted, gave way to light, much to Christine's relief.
Led by this imposing, magnetic angel, Christine discovered a secret, chimerical world of eerie catacombs adorned with carved gargoyles, a vast silvery lake with swirling mist. A maroon curtain lifted, iron portcullis rose, dripping water, revealing Paradiso beyond.
Christine hadn't realized her strange angel had stepped out of the boat, now secured to the shore, and began to light candles. Bewitched, she let her eyes pay homage in solemn reverence to the scenery before her.
A Phantasmagorical tapestry of dark and sombre tones softly illuminated by amber candlelight, richly blended with picturesque disorder, in harmony with the dusky furnishings, wondrous ornaments and the massive pipe organ, ceremonially arranged in a background of grandiose masonry of the enormous cavern.
Christine felt small, vulnerable, insignificant, and insubstantial in this grand sanctuary of her angel.
Her angel…
Radiant in his black light.
At a first glance, he seemed nothing but a tall, ebon silhouette animated by Night itself, for he was clad entirely in black except for a snow white shirt.
Black leather boots adorned his feet, black satin trousers clung to his long, powerful legs, his shirt obscured by a deep black vest and jet black cravat folded about his neck elegantly, only the white collars visible, a gold trimmed brocade obsidian waistcoat fitted his broad torso perfectly, complemented by a resplendent black velvet cape, its embroidered collar flicked up.
His hair, swept-back and slicked down with a prominent widow's peak, was the shade of lightless midnight, gleaming a glossy onyx, contrasting sharply with the stark alabaster of his skin, his startling, steel blue-grey eyes, and the white leather mask that covered almost the entire right side of his face.
The mask was ominously cold, grim and imposing…
Perplexed and afraid, her deep brown gaze focused on the uncovered side of his face.
Christine stared, her eyes huge in her face.
God in Heaven…
He was beautiful. Wickedly so…Entrancingly so…
She had seen her share of handsome, even gorgeous men in the opera, among the dancers or the audience…but the face before her was nothing like she'd ever seen.
This was not a softly pretty face of a comely dandy, or a classic, charmingly good looking visage of a storybook knight on a white horse and a flashing sword.
His face, -or the half of it- was enthralling, magnetic, harsh and strong… His was the kind of refined, striking beauty that brought to mind frozen northlands, frigid Mother Russia, dark and mighty deities of pagan tales…Austere, completely controlled, brimming with enigmatic power.
A righteous white knight? Michelangelo's David ? A kind, fair angel?
What a joke in comparison to this dark god of music.
Why, then, the mask? Of what use was it? Adornment?
Hardly so.
Maybe concealing mercifully a scar?
A scar nasty enough to be hidden behind a mask?
Awestruck, Christine felt sick dread rise within her, her head swam, her mouth went dry, yet she felt her skin burning hot and flushed, tingling all over.
Why did her mind and body react with such fervour to his nearness?
Slow, deliberate steps carried him over to her, lifting her out of the boat effortlessly, strong arms holding her with a firm grip against him. Christine instantly wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing in his unique earthen musk, revelling in his encompassing warmth.
Gracefully, she was set back down on the ground. The stone floor beneath her white stockinged feet was pleasantly cool and smooth.
Then, to her surprise, the subliminal cavern was further glorified by music.
His music.
The Music of The Night.
His voice was shadowy soft, a silken phantasm, deep and intoxicating.
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination…
There was a faint accent in his flowing French as he sang to her. An unfamiliar accent that conjured up dizzyingly high, snow-capped mountains reflected on the glacial surface of a crystalline lake, surrounded by a dense and ancient woodland, bleeding into a brooding grey sky.
Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour…
As his ambrosial voice soared, so did Christine, her eyes closing in rapture, transcending into a mystical realm of kaleidoscopic pictures hazy and blurry at first.
Turn your face away from the garish light of day…
Soon the mists parted, the landscape stretched before her vision was a breathtaking garden beneath a starlit darkest blue sky, where flowers only bloomed at night. She inhaled their dusky perfume; myrrh, Indian musk. Red patchouli, ambergris, jasmine…
Close your eyes and surrender yourself to your darkest dreams…
She found herself standing amidst this strange, spectacular garden, flowers uncrushed beneath her feet, dressed in a long, flowing gown of white silk embroidered with tiny blue flowers, free of the tortuous restraint of the whalebone corset, her feet stockingless and bare, her waist length curls unbound and adorned with a crown of violets, the fragrant summer breeze toying with her hair playfully.
Open up your mind; let your fantasies unwind…
Christine raised her arms heavenward, her face bathed in moonlight, spinning around gaily, laughing in joy, marvelling in the elemental beauty surrounding her.
The archangel wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, his huge black wings spread across her protectively, hands gliding over the thin fabric of her dress, caressing her ribs ever so softly, sending ripples of heat through her unresisting body.
Touch me, trust me…savour each sensation!
Christine, her eyes shut, leaned back into his embrace, her hand reaching up to his face, encountering freshly shaven skin of his cheek, her fingers exploring the smooth texture eagerly, shivering in delight. Every inch of her being was painfully acute to his body pressed close to hers.
You alone can make my song take flight…
Velvet lips brushing against her ear tantalizingly, a deep breath shuddered out of her.
Help me make the music of the night…
Christine...
Spellbound and stunned, Christine did not make a single sound, she was afraid of breathing even, afraid to let go of the dream…
"Christine."
The music was over, the Garden of Eden nothing but an illusion…and his voice was a firm whisper.
Still semi-delirious from his music, luminous brown eyes slid open reluctantly, gazing up at…
The Angel of Music.
Winter-grey eyes were shaded with warm, pure blue, heavy with emotion, strange lights emanated from within…
He stared down at her, his thumb swept across her bottom lip, which was flushed to a dark rose, swollen and tensed with anticipation…
Abruptly, he turned away from her, the enchantment was undone.
Christine's trembling hand rose over her chest, trying to slow the restless pounding of her heart.
"Angel." She called, her voice sweet, low, like flowing nectar of the goddess to his senses.
Erik's sculpted features were set in stern, grave lines. Shadows flickered menacingly across his mask.
"My name is Erik, and I'm no angel." He said smoothly, sullenly.
Christine blinked, her mind flooded with a horde of possibilities…and questions.
True, he was only a man.
But, could a man possess a mindwith suck skill, make suchmagnificent, glorious musicand transport a soul to a realm of divine beauty?
Christine walked up to him quietly, laying a hand on his arm, feeling the firm muscles tense beneath the fabric of his waistcoat.
"Erik, look at me, please."
Hearing his name from her lips was ….divine.
His eyes drifted to her, regarding her with a frown upon his brow.
"Nobody has ever made me feel like this before, and I thank you for that."
A soft smile played upon her lips.
"And how did I make you feel exactly, mademoiselle Daae?" He demanded in a harsh tone.
Erik quieted his demons, quenching his raging fires.
Christine stepped further into the sanctum, glancing about curiously, then turned back to him.
"I can't describe it, I'm sorry." She said gently. "All I can say is, your music is the stuff of dreams, monsieur. It always has been."
Erik bowed in mock gratitude, a bitter half smile on his lips.
"Thank you, mademoiselle. You made the Opera Ghost's night, truly."
Apprehension and fear dawned in her eyes, the brown depths filled with awed terror.
"You're the Phantom of the Opera!" She staggered backward in sudden trepidation, face turned deathly pale.
"Brava, mademoiselle. I was wondering when you would figure that out." He said sourly, his voice touched by anguish.
Christine sighed, her lashes lowered,pondering...
Erik advanced on her, slowly, cautiously.
Christine tensed and glanced up, crestfallen, clearly bewildered by these events.
"Christine, whatever have I done to distress you? I have endeavoured to make you at ease, in every fashion I have control over."
Bitter silence.
A fallen angel, plunged on scorched wings.
Her small hand travelled to the left side of his face, gentle fingers touching his chin, trailing upwards fingertips grazing his black sideburn, her palm finally resting on his cheek.
Erik flinched ever so slightly at her delicate touch…He stared at her in a moment in utter shock, his eyes sliding partly closed as he watched her face light up in a smile.
A gloved hand rested lightly over her own warm one, gently drawing it to his lips to place a kiss to her palm.
Her large eyes were serene, her smile trusting.
Would she look the same, he wondered, if...when, she saw what nightmares lied beneath that mask of his...
Erik dropped her hand silently, his lips compressed in annoyance, as well as a nagging feeling he was doing something more heinous than all previous crimes committed.
"Come, I will take you back up, you need all the rest you can get for tomorrow night's gala."
Of course, Chalumeau's Hannibal.
Ballet de Corps had been rehearsing all day, Christine had been looking forward to a good long night's rest, but sleep had not come. Till midnight she had tossed and turned in bed, finally rising to visit her father's memorial.
And now, she was down here, in this subterranean abode, with …him.
The Opera Ghost.
A slight look of concern entered his eyes as he gazed at her.
How he could stare without seeming to be rude was beyond Christine.
She brushed her thick curls back off her face self consciously and nodded.
Seeing the shadows deepening here and there, Christine wanted nothing more than the comfort of her warm bed, away from this strange place, this strange man.
Yet…A part of her that she thought never existed wanted to stay down here with him.
Forever.
Questioning eyes searched the masked face.
The answer was simple.
"Tomorrow, Christine…"
