2. Broken
Once he was certain it was safe, Erik returned to survey his broken kingdom. The mob had been ruthless, destroying his meager possessions in the misplaced frustration of being unable to destroy the man himself. His music was scattered, some burned to ashes, some pieces floating in the murky waters of the lake. The organ had been smashed into oblivion, the swan bed overturned. His careful, reverent drawings of Christine were strewn across the floor, crumpled beneath the heavy boots of the blood-thirsty crowd.
It was fitting, he thought, this broken kingdom for a broken man. Prince of the Night he was no longer. He turned, seeing his reflection in the shards of a shattered mirror. The haunted image he saw reflected in the cruel honesty of the glass showed the bitter truth of what he was – a deformed old man, alone in the world, betrayed by all whom he had cared for. He was Christine's angel no longer, only a pitiful creature who in his madness had slipped into delusions of grandeur and love, but who had been awakened rudely to harsh reality at last.
Christine. He reached down to retrieve one of his sketches from the lake, even now holding it reverently in his hands. He touched the curve of her face in the sketch, the softness of her curls as if she was there standing next to him. His angel. She had shown him and the world, that night on the opera stage before the entire city of Paris. She had revealed him, playing on his desperate longings, when he had in his delusions believed it was he who was entrancing her. Singing to him her Siren's song, daring him to believe that his voice had truly kindled desire, even love in her angelic heart. Then she had ripped away his mask, in every sense, showing him in truth that her only desire was to be free of him once and for all, even if it meant his capture or death.
He dropped the picture back into the water, watching it sail away from him just as she had only the night before. He sat down on the shoreline staring at the water, vividly remembering her final act of cruelty - her kiss. She had used his love to bend him to her will, and then thrust it back at him like the unwanted gift it was. All to save her beloved vicomte with his perfect face and his fortune – everything including Christine handed to him on a silver platter by God himself, he thought bitterly.
Erik's face dropped into his hands, and hot tears of anguish began to flow through his long fingers. He remembered then the ring he still wore. That very ring she had taken and placed on her own hand in mock acceptance of his proposal. He knew not what her intention had been in returning it to him, for it was not his ring, but Raoul's engagement ring to her. Perhaps she had meant to torture him with the thought of her impending marriage, or more likely she had simply enjoyed the cruelty of thrusting it back into his hand to show him how laughable the idea of her choosing to stay with him had been.
He raised his dark head, his blue-gray eyes hardening to icy steel. It mattered not what her intention had been in giving it, it was the only gift from her he had, and it would serve him always as a valuable reminder of what he would never again presume to believe he deserved.
Erik straightened and walked back to what had formerly been his bedroom. He managed to find a trunk of clothing that had somehow remained unscathed during the sacking of his home. He washed and dressed impeccably, again sliding his dark wig into place and finding refuge behind his mask once more. He spent the remainder of the afternoon gathering what possessions he could find that would be of use to him and packing them in the trunk. By nightfall, as he turned to leave, he thought with a sad smile that he had almost erased any signs of his presence there. One could, in fact, have believed that the shadowed figure who had once dwelt there had truly been no more than a ghost. Erik turned and left. He did not look back again.