The Harmony

The Paris Opera made Christine uncomfortable.

Meg chattered on about this light fixture and that sculpture, the cute chorus boys in "La Bella" and everything but the last opera house they had shared together. She took in the polychrome façade and opulent staircase, all lit in soft light, casting a golden veneer all around. The foyers were bedecked with small, twinkling chandeliers, moody paintings by celebrated romantic artists, golden columns and marble floor that echoed loudly with the click click of her high heels.

She smiled with a bemused expression, but was unattached all the same. Being a patron's wife had rid her of some of the childlike astonishment one gets observing sumptuous affluence. It saddened her; no matter what had become of her – or Erik – she did not wish to harden her heart.

The Paris Opera, or Opera Garnier, was gorgeous; it was heavily and exorbitantly ornamented and utterly lovely – she was surrounded by nothing but loveliness. What did an opera stand for if not fantasy and impossible beauty? Illusions of grandeur even Erik had tried to attain but never held, she thought. Looking around, it was so much like the opera house neither of them would mention. Christine was not annoyed; the voice in her head was enough reminiscing for the both of them.

When they came to the "La fontaine sous la petite rotonde," Christine caught her breath. They both lingered at the statue lit by soft candelabras on both sides and standing elegantly in a curiously aquamarine pool that reminded her of his eyes.

"I have seen this before," Christine said quietly. "But it never fails to make me stop…" The woman in the sculpture was so poised, delicate and refined. A motherly creature made of stone. It caused Christine's heart to ache.

Meg paused, admiring the sculpture, absently recalling Christine's own lack of a mother figure in her life. The thought saddened her and she hurried on, "I really must show you the spectacular view from the roof top."

"The – the roof top?" Christine's eyebrow quirked and she was filled with a rush of excitement and apprehension. Christine and Raoul had first admitted their love for one another on the roof of the Opera Populaire. It was a bittersweet memory and her mouth turned up slightly. She cupped her arms around herself.

"Sure," she said, almost a whisper. "I would love that."

Meg turned and led the way with a grin and Christine's face slowly dropped, like wax melting down the staff of a candle stick.

……………………………………………………….

Charles Gumery's "Harmony" sculpture was ineffably beautiful, but no match for a perfect Paris night sky.

Lamps gave the ground below a romantic light, chasing away shadow and bathing passersby in a false sun. But the sky was a diamond and black velvet masterpiece. Endless, dark, amazing.

No one was around and Meg was silent. Christine approached the roof's edge, placing her hands on the granite banister, adoringly stroking the cold stone beneath her. No one was around.

"The managers do not like us to come up here, but I had to show you. It is breath-taking, no?"

"Yes," Christine replied. "Oh, God … It's wonderful."

Christine's mind drifted off to another place. Meg noted her visible ascension, and folded her hands. She did not have much to add, for the sight of Paris at night never ceased to render her near speechlessness. Meg shivered as the gentle night chill prickled her skin and she remembered her place.

"I am afraid I have to get back. I just wanted to show you this so that maybe – maybe you would like it." She ended on a hopeful note. Christine had not been herself tonight and Meg had sensed the change in the friend she had known all her life. Christine had always been good at hiding within herself, but some things could not be tucked away forever. Meg sensed her unhappiness at the core although she did not know why.

Meg touched her friend's arm gently and felt Christine jerk a little, just slightly, but it was enough. "We should head back down. Raoul will be missing you."

"Not yet," Christine replied, her eyes still to the black horizon dotted with city lights. She turned to Meg, gave her the slightest acquiescence of reassurance with her eyes. Meg was slightly taken aback.

"I would like to stay for a few moments more. This place," she wet her lips, "It reminds me of home." She turned to Meg, her arms wrapped around her midriff. "Is that strange?"

Christine had grown these few years, but looking at her now, Meg saw that little child her mother had taken in 20 years ago. Giving a slight nod, one of those little gestures that mean more than words, Meg said, "Alright."

Christine granted her a smile, one she meant. It felt good. Meg made her feel good.

When she was alone, Christine turned back to the skyline and sighed. She was very rarely alone in her new life, which was ironic. As a child, she had hated isolation, had only found comfort in the voice of her Angel. An Angel who wasn't an angel at all. She bit her lip, despising the flood of memories and feelings she was sure would rush upon her like an unrelenting landslide. She was puzzled when all she felt was the night chill upon her spine. Something in the air had changed.

Exhaling deeply, Christine clenched the bars of the banister tightly.

"Why are you here?"

There was no response, no sound, but she knew. Like a mother knows when her child is distressed, she always knew him, felt him, saw him in her mind.

"I would reply you the same."

Christine had to force herself to keep from jumping as his breath caught the tender skin on her ear and her body instantly responded to his nearness. He was always silent, a creeping hunter and without words or sound he had crept up to her very side without her knowing. Still the Phantom, she grimaced, even as her heart began to race.

Deliberately giving him her back, she found it was easy to be cruel. "My husband is the patron. I am here as his wife."

Erik chuckled low in his throat, a sound that was faintly human. "Your husband." He said the two words with such revulsion, condescension and seething hate that Christine was amazed he was able to express so much in the capacity of three syllables. Amazement escaped her and was replaced with anger.

Slowly, she turned around, leaning back slightly against the banister. Ignoring his face beguiled with a loathsome smirk and cold, penetrating eyes that paradoxically held such heat, she reared back and slapped him as hard as she could. She began to shake, her hands trembling at her sides and her chest heaving mightily. Her eyes gleamed with an animalistic aggression and her lips, painted scarlet, were pulled back against pearly teeth clenched firmly in anger. The force of the slap had let loose a few curls from her French twist, making her look like some wild thing. He could not take his eyes off of her.

"I will spare you my words, but I will not spare you my scorn. Stay away from me now and forever or you will pay the price." She glared at him once more before turning to stalk away, her skirts gathered in shaking hands, trying furiously to blink back tears.

His opera had begun. He could hear the strains of violins seeping through the globed ceiling of the Garnier.

"Who?" He uttered without a single quaver. She turned around to regard his profile, upright and confident, and became even more irate. He waited another beat before expanding. "Who will carry out this threat you so idly have taxed on my head?" He turned around with the casual air of a man perusing a china collection. Meeting her raging brown eyes with his own detached ones, he regarded her without betraying the ache her presence was causing him.

He could hear his heroine singing below him, could barely make out the words of the first aria. He did not need to hear it though.

Christine was unsure of how to react faced with the calm of his countenance. "My husband," she bit out awkwardly, drawing herself up slightly and smoothing her skirts with false confidence. Crossing her arms across her chest and casting a cool glance in his direction, Christine tried her damnedest to be aloof and disdainful.

The jealous wind

The humble butterfly …

The mention of Raoul's rightful place in her life shook him more than he would have liked to let on and he lost some of his self-possession. "Your husband," he mocked, "That boy would not have the nerve nor the stones." He cast his eyes down, moving them up her body slowly, lingering at her breasts. Christine was suddenly conscious of her breathing. He took one step forward, and Christine reacted.

How humorously love metamorphoses to hate

A caterpillar glimpsing crimson monarch

Despises his bristles

Longing to flutter free on angel wings

"Stop." Her voice took on the same whisper it had before the fountain. He continued to approach. Damn you, Christine, act like an adult for once. Stretching her arms out before her protectively, she continued, stronger this time, "Just. Stop." She hated that childlike quaver that always caught in her throat like a bird trying to escape its cage.

"Leave me alone," she said stonily, her eyes boring into his.

A butterfly

Free to fly to the tune of the wind's whistle

Erik obeyed her request, but a smirk fell upon his lips once more. "Stop?" He queried, focusing on her mouth. "Is that what you really would like me to do." It was not a question.

"Erik, please." His name – she had not spoken it since they had last seen one another, when he'd –

"You can't. Please leave me be." She could not look at him now.

The wind toys with its fragility

Dances with its dangerous love

"Why?"

"You betrayed my trust!" Christine exploded, expelling built up emotions she was not sure she had. "You hurt me, you hurt Brigitte, with your lies, your deception! How could you do it? You had never intentionally hurt me, never! Not before." Her voice trailed off and she was suddenly very tired.

Erik wanted to talk to her, tell her he was sorry, tell her he loved her. He kissed her instead.

His lips on hers took her by surprise and she reeled back almost immediately. Almost.

They said nothing. He stared, she stared. They both thought it was ridiculous, rude even, but neither could stop.

The wind caresses and threatens to break

The cautious butterfly, teasing clouds above

The jealous wind takes him higher

The aria ended. Neither noticed. He took one hesitant step forward, the confident charm worn away once more as it always did when she was around. He drew his hand up and it lingered there for a moment, both of them aware, almost hypnotized by its presence, unmoving, in the air. It was almost in slow motion that she watched his hand approach, watched his fingers curl and his thumb move closer to her mouth. She could not breath, could barely blink. Run!, her mind screamed, Run away!

His thumb touched the left corner of her mouth and lingered slightly, both of them rattled by the shock their meeting flesh had incited. His eyes burned into hers. The orchestra struck up a dark, dissonant rhythm of clanging brass and shrill winds. A bass drum beat steadily. He was sorry, so sorry, could not say it. She seemed to understand and did not pull away. She blinked, testing reality, realizing this was not a dream.

Slowly, he dragged his thumb across her lips, smearing her scarlet rouge. She could not help her tongue from darting out as he could not help from shaking at the sensation.

He withdrew his hand, and they both locked eyes.

"You are beautiful without it," Erik murmured without thinking.

I am accountable for what went wrong, he seemed to say. A horn blared. But perhaps she was wishing it. Erik's mouth would not – could not – work. The words that he wielded like weapons clattered to the grown in defeat with a hollow clang. He stood there, dumb and speechless, as utterly entranced by her as he was afraid. The music took on a lively banter, joyous and carefree. Hours seemed to pass as they stood there, staring at one another.

Christine blinked and touched a finger to her mouth as if it were a foreign object. Her lips felt the same way she remembered them to be, but somehow different. She lowered her lashes. Get it together, be calm, be reasonable. But all reason had left her the moment she had let him touch her. She almost laughed, knowing it was a lie. She had left reason behind the moment she had stepped onto the roof top terrace.

"I, I have to go." That is not my voice, she registered through a haze. Is that my voice? Weakly, she tried again. "I have to leave. I cannot stay." Still, it sounded foreign, as if she were listening to her ghost-self speak. The music grew suddenly louder, rising to a grand crescendo, then died suddenly. It was familiar. Christine frowned, ignoring the niggling of intuition at the back of her mind.

She started looking around wilding and backed up slightly. Erik was losing her.

"Christine, wait." Panic had crept into his voice and, he feared, his face. He held out a hand and didn't know why. "Just – wait."

She obeyed. She was used to obeying Erik. A flute whistled in the distance.

Seconds passed and their breathing was audible. You are afraid, a voice said. You have always been afraid. He shook his head. She does not love you. Leave her be.

Inclining his head, he could not look at her, only shake his head. She looked at him and saw a man defeated. She turned around, stumbled and walked recklessly to the roof top door. Only a few paces and I will be safe. Something called her back though and she stopped. She waited the ten obligatory seconds it would take for him to call her back. But he did not. Not knowing what she was waiting for and hating herself for being so willing, Christine left. His music swelled around him as Erik stood alone on a perfect night in Paris.