"You're going to die here, Monsieur," said the voice, a childish tone that haunted him as much as he did the fair Miss Daaé.
"I know that, damn it," he growled softly the final echoes of the mysterious voice escaping in to the deeper regions of his dark, otherworldly lair. The Voice, appearing to have a childish, feminine purity, seemed to come from every direction, as if he were surrounded by a hundred little girls on every side, each telling him the same horrible truth.
"So you're not going to do anything about it, Monsieur?" Curiosity had triumphed over her and she just had to ask. Certainly, he, the great Phantom, magician and mason could over come anything...even hell.
"No," Erik's voice cut though her thoughts and barricaded them for the time being. He had had enough of the outside world and once he had condemned himself to this never-ending hell, he knew that there was never any 'going back'.
" I shall see you in hell then, if ever, Monsieur," she was trying to provoke him to make a change, to take a leap but she knew nothing of his true self, perhaps his past, but nothing of his stubborn nature.
"Show yourself, Constance," he demanded curtly, for even this mysterious voice had a name.
"I would prefer not to," she smarted back, "I have heard of your tricks, Monsieur, of your deception, or your lies and I wish nothing of it. Keep your cat-gut to yourself, Monsieur," her voice mocked his power but also told him "No" in the same stubborn way the he had told her. She acted as if she treated him with the up most respect, always referring to him a 'Monsieur' this and 'Monsieur' that but between 'Monsiuers' mockery dripped like venom from ever word. Erik nodded, slowly but understandingly. He too often wished to hide as well, but it was not as if he had anyone to hide from, well, no one to hide from except himself.
The ivory white mask of the infamous Opera Ghost shown bright in the dim candle light (they were everywhere) against the total blackness of his basement lair. Whether she came to him out of pity or out of lacking anything more amusing, he did not know.
She never wished for him to see her, and even though he had asked at least a hundred times, if not more. She was a curious little girl, and unlike most of her age, she did not lack the ability to figure out what deformities truly lay behind his snow-white mask and unlike most of her age, she did not mind.
"Surely you don't wish to stay simply a voice forever, now do you Constance?" His voice was calmed, almost soothing, as one would be if they were trying to draw a skittish animal towards them. "You wouldn't like what you would see. I know it, and then you would wish you never asked, Monsieur," she mumbled admittedly. "How can you, do you, know that that could possibly be true?" he asked though gritted teeth, trying to control his anger at being judged by a child. Constance touched one of the bruises on her china doll-like face, "I just do."