A short chapter...but an update is an update, right?

I like where this is going...hope you guys do too!

Enjoy this rare, lighter side of Erik.

Nico

Erik looked at his reflection in one of the many cracked mirrors that were in his lair, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Most of his clothing was fashionably eccentric; Erik figured that since his face could never be considered beautiful, his clothing would.

Nothing he wore on a daily basis, however, compared with the outfit he presently found himself in.

The past three nights of his life had been filled with Christine's excited jabber over the Masquerade. Each night she had come to him, her eyes filled with the same exuberance that filled a child's eyes on the Eve of Christmas.

She had insisted he dress the part of the new persona she had carefully weaved for him.

He smiled slightly as he remembered the night before, and how she had playfully bestowed upon him his new identity.

"I hereby dub you Sir Erik DuLange, a member of her Royal Highness's court, and the newest, finest composer in all of England," Christine had said, dramatically touching an antique sword Erik kept in the lair to each of his shoulders.

"Must I be English?" He had asked, enjoying the look of annoyance that briefly flashed across Christine's face. "The English are so terribly boring…"

"Watch what you say," Christine said, now holding the sword in a playful, but menacing fashion. "My mother was English."

"That explains why you bore me to tears," he replied, now smiling gently.

Christine had obviously been pleased with the slight change in his tone.

"You must remember, Erik, to mask your accent as much as possible," she had instructed.

"My accent?" He had repeated. "What accent?"

"It's terribly strange," Christine had informed him. "Not quite French…yet not quite anything else. It was the first thing I noticed about you…before I actually met you."

"I've lived in many places," Erik explained.

"Yes, well, for both our sakes, I hope England was one of them," she replied.

"The English accent is simple," Erik said, demonstrating in perfectly accented tones.

Christine had clasped her hands together in happiness. "Perfect!" She had exclaimed. "And now, there's just a small matter of your costume."

"I'm not wearing a costume," Erik had said tersely. "I will be wearing the mask, that is enough."

"No, it isn't," Christine had replied. "You forget that you are escorting a star…"

Erik scoffed.

"…and you must match her regal excellence." Christine continued, ignoring him.

"I am pleased that your successes haven't gone to your head," Erik mocked.

"Please, Erik," Christine had replied in a more serious tone. "You must come in costume."

And now he stood before the mirror, shaking his head at his own reflection.

He had decided to wear a slightly different mask than he normally would, choosing a full blackone which covered the entire upper half of his face, leaving only his chin and mouth exposed. For added effect, he had outlined the visible skin around his eyes in kohl, making it appear as if his golden irises were peering out of veritable darkness.

He was entirely clad in black and red velvet; an impressive red cloak completing the elegant suit which boasted golden buttons and intricate embroidery. Black boots hugged his lower legs from the knee down, shining and glinting in the dim light.

His hair was slicked back, curling just slightly behind his ears.

He was Red Death, all at once imposing, menacing, and seductive.

This costume, he realized, would do absolutely nothing to allow him his precious anonymity.

Christine twisted the delicate strings of pearls hanging from her neck around her fingers, feeling terribly anxious.

He was late.

They had agreed to meet on the roof; Erik had insisted he escort her properly…which meant meeting her somewhere other than her private chambers.

The roof had seemed safe and isolated from the ballroom, which was already teaming with increasinglydrunk socialites.

For several horrible moments, Christine became convinced that Erik was not going to come. After all, he had not wanted to to begin with.

But then, just as tears were beginning to well in Christine's eyes, she heard footsteps.

Erik approached, watching as Christine turned slowly in the moonlight.

She was bathed in silvers and blues, which danced across the glittering gown that hugged her pale body.

A tight white bodice pushed hercleavage up just enough to spill gently over the top ofher gown. Erik's eyes followed the swell of the flesh up to her bare collarbone and shoulders. Long white gloves covered her hands, extending all the way to the middle of her bicep. Theskirt of the gown circled around her, enveloping her slender legs in delicate layers of silk, taffeta and satin.

Her hair was swept elegantly away from her face, adorned with dozens of pearl pins which allowed thick curls to spill down her back.

Erik could barely swallow.

When she saw him, she hurried over, her face full of relief and awe. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to come," she told him, drinking in the sight of him.

Erik, feeling a surge of confidence under her obviously approving stare, took her hand in his in a dashing manner, pressing his warm lips to the back ofit for a moment longer than politeness dictated. "I will never break a promise to you," he said quietly. Then, straightening up, still holding her hand he added, "you truly look beautiful."

Christine blushed. "So do you."

He lowered his mouth to hers, taking her lips in his in one fluid, terribly romantic motion.

And there, in the secluded moonlight on the roof of the Opera Populaire, Christine realized she was hopelessly in love with the man behind the mask.

When he pulled from the kiss, Christine felt as if her very soul had been pulled from her mouth along with his retreat. She could do nothing but stare at him.

"Come," he said after several moments of meeting her gaze. "This shall be the performance of both our lives."