Two

Christine shrieked aloud and spun around. A man stood there, his face hidden by a hooded cloak, his form hunched and dusty as though he too had been abandoned here to rot. He did not speak, and though she could not see his face, she felt his gaze upon her.

This was not— could not be Erik. It had been only two months— could he have collapsed like this in that short time?

She finally ventured, "You frightened me."

The dusty chuckle that escaped the figure was more disturbing than screams would have been. "I am always frightening people, it seems. It would appear to be my lot in life."

"Good God in heaven," she breathed. "It is you!"

Slowly the hulk of a man straightened up, casting his hood backwards to show his face. The strong features of the left side of the face were there, exactly as they had been— the right side, constantly covered by a mask when she had known him before, was now hidden by a strange rig-
up that confused her— where had his mask gone?

She managed, falteringly, to ask him.

Erik stared at her with his riveting blue eyes. "Gone for two months, no sight or sound of you, and when you come back, that is all you can think to ask? I wonder about you, Madame de Chagny, I really do."

"But... I... I am not"

"Your friend in the ballet, the daughter of Madame Giry— she took it. She came with the mob, and she found my mask, and she took it. I was left to fend for myself, you see— " He gestured at the awkward assemblage that covered his right side. "I don't believe I did too bad a job." Another dusty chuckle accompanied this.

Christine stared at him, tears seeping once more from her eyelids. "I thought I was done crying," she said.

He stared back. "So did I," he said softly.

There was a look in his eyes that she did not like. She stepped forward, gritting her teeth. She was afraid of him now, of his physical being, though shed never truly feared his touch before. She realized she was not yet convinced that he was real, and not an apparition.

"I heard you were dead, Erik. It— was in the papers— "

"Ah yes." He looked away, studied the ceiling, far above their heads and dripping water. "Well, there was a reason for it. I don't believe I need go into that at the moment. But rest assured, Madame de Chagny— there was reason, and a very good one."

"You wanted me to think you were dead," she said, comprehending.

Erik continued to stare at the ceiling, nodding only slightly.

Christine wiped her eyes. "Why, Erik?" she asked.

His eyes flicked back and captured hers. "Why did you come here, Madame de Chagny? Why leave your comfortable home and your loving husband, and come here to these dark cellars to seek out a man you had forgotten the moment he was out of your sight?"

She said, not very clearly, "I wanted— to find out— "

Erik smiled. It was a very slow, mean smile. "I know why."

"I only— "

He reached out with a suddenness that made her start and captured her hand. "You have come back to me," he said, bringing her hand to his face and pressing his lips to her wrist. "You have come back— to stay."

She couldn't contradict him, not then, not like that. He drew her closer and she looked at the mask he had contrived.

"Erik— "

"Ah, yes, my dear. My face need frighten no one any longer." He chuckled once more, and the sound sent shivers down her spine. "You will find, to your regret, that this is one mask that will not come off."

It was true.

The rough white cloth was sewn to the flesh of his face.

With difficulty, gulping down the bile that rose in her throat at the sight of it, Christine tore her gaze away from the loose stitches and fixed her eyes on his.

"You wanted me to believe you were dead," she said, returning to the former subject. "I— I did not believe it, Erik. I did not want to believe it."

He tilted his head and looked at her. "Could you have gone through life with an angel looking over your shoulder?" he asked wistfully. "If you believed me to be alive, you would not be happy. You would have known the depths of my misery, and it would have prefaced your own. I have faith in the goodness of your soul, Christine— there is no badness in you, no lowness of thought."

It was too much, this burden of being thought perfect. Christine shook her head.

"And my gamble was rewarded," continued Erik softly.

Christine dared not ask what he meant by this. Suddenly she was overcome by the sensation of relief— relief that he was not dead. She stumbled forwards and caught him in her arms.

"Oh, Erik!"

For a moment he nearly relaxed against her, the muscles of his arms becoming taut as his hands moved to her back. For a moment he held her against him, gloried in her heartbeat. For a moment all seemed well.

Then he put her away from him, gently but firmly.

"Madame de Chagny," he said formally, "such forward behavior is not in keeping with a virtuous young wife."

"But— "

"I must beg you not to touch me again." She listened to his breath, listened for a hint that he was stirred in some manner by her nearness, her presence, but his breathing was as even and level as his voice. There returned to him the nearly cold aloofness that had been present all those months ago when he had first begun to tutor her.

Such a long time ago—

She kept herself from drifting into memory and focused on the present. Erik was here, here now, standing in front of her, and she felt the same old mix of fear and pleasure that he had always excited in her. His voice hurt her, in calling her Madame de Chagny, Raoul's wife— she wanted to hear him call her Christine, as he had ever done before.

She tried again.

"Erik, I must tell you, I am not"

"Perhaps you have come back for more lessons," he suggested, turning his face away from her. With that horrid whiteness of the mask hidden from her, his face looked normal; a little sunken, a little tired, a little older than when she had seen him last— but real. Gloriously real and tangible, physical—

His eyes swept back to her and she started as their gazes met. Clear blue his gaze was, deep as night, implacable as death.

"Singing lessons," she ventured. "No, no I have not. I have stopped singing, Erik."

She had thought that surely he would protest this, this needless waste of her talent, but he simply appeared to take the knowledge in, nodding slowly as he assimilated it.

"Perhaps it is as it should be," he said. "I always said you should sing for me, did I not, Christine?"

It was so different from Raoul's encouragement that she continue with her career that she took a minute to think about it.

"Yes," she said at last, slowly. "You always wished me to sing for you, Erik. It was my gift to you, I suppose; my thanks for teaching me. But now..."

She wanted him to ask her why she no longer sang. She had a nicely dramatic answer all prepared.

I do not sing, Erik, because you are no longer there to hear me.

But he did not ask. He walked away from her, ascending to the large chair that was more like a throne, situated in the centre of the room. He sat on it, back straight, eyes turning inward, brooding.

"Tell me, Madame de Chagny, what goes on in the world above?"

"The world is the same as it ever was," she said with terrible calmness. "It goes ever on as it has since its creation. Erik— I did not come to talk of the condition of society. I must tell you— "

Very slowly, his head with its sunken cheek and half-white starkness looked up at her.

"I am not married," she said, and faltered at once, for the change in him was immediate and great. He breathed in short, rapid gasps, his eyes wide as he panted as if he'd been running. She attempted to explain further but he had stood, one hand out, stopping her words on her lips.

"You are not married," he repeated, his tone quiet, as though he did not believe what he himself said. "You are not."

She shook her head mutely.

Erik gave a cry that sounded so alien to her ears that she jumped. It was a cry of relief, of surprise, of such intense joy that she winced to hear it. He came towards her, hands outstretched, and stopped just short of touching her.

"My child," he said fondly. "You are not married, and you have returned to me." She looked at him and saw tears in his eyes. "You have made me so happy," he whispered.

The tears overran his eyes, and she moved forward into his embrace.

His lips moved against her hair.

"I hoped— I prayed you would come— you would come back to me— and now you have!"

Something about it was so wrong, that even in the midst of her comfort, in his warm embrace, it got through to her, and she stiffened. But it was too late. He had let her go and whirled away, reaching for a lever high up on a wall.

"Now the world can be shut away at last!" he cried, and pulled the lever.

The gate came down, trundling ponderously, blocking the entrance to Erik's underground lair—

And the exit.