Chapter Four: What Dreams May Bring

The room was thick around her as she awoke. She held tightly to her dream, more vivid than most, as the last strains of piano music floated through her mind. She loved her visits with him, in the dead of night with reality could halt and allow the restless psyche to present gifts of fantasy. She shivered, and scooted closer to Raoul, who despite her undying passion for Erik, she had grown to care for and perhaps even love. His body was warm against hers, and he slipped an arm around her waist.

Her eyes opened slowly at first, and then hurriedly as she realized that the man beside her was not her fiancé. He felt her start, and he shifted to look down at her.

"Erik!" she cried out with a gasp and then jerked away in shock, sitting quickly upright and gathering the bedclothes around her chest. He propped himself up on his elbow and furrowed his brow, bewilderment clouding his features.

"Oh, good God, I imagined it a dream," she proclaimed, shaking her head. "I did not dare to believe it could be true." Her voice softened and she stared upon him. "Oh, Erik."

He shifted uncomfortably. He felt the events of the previous night stretching between them like a taunt cord, waiting to break and whip back, slapping him in the face.

"I'm to be married in three days," she murmured to herself, her eyes feral. "They'll come after you," she said, looking up at him. He remained warily silent. "I have to go because if I were to remain…Raoul would be certain…well he would know that you'd seduced me into staying." Her voice floated in and out between hushed thought and exclamation. "He's probably out searching for me now." He could tell she was working herself up into frenzy, but could do nothing to stop it. He stood, clothing himself rather calmly and quickly, and left the bedroom. It took her a moment to realize he'd gone. She glanced all around her and then stood, forgetful of her state of undress, and walked into the main dwelling. He stood over a high round table, studying a large paper. She came up to him and he looked toward her. For a moment, he faltered, his eyes sweeping her skin. His heart lurched and his knees ached, but he returned his gaze to the paper.

"You certainly know the way out," he said stoically. He'd grown used to her leaving, and though he could not claim that he was numb to the pain, he had acquired a sense of immunity from the heartbreak.

"You understand that I must go," she said urgently. "It is not a choice of mine to make." He slammed his hand on the table and looked at her with seething impatience.

"You are a distinct being, capable of individual action and thought. It is your choice to come and go as you please and while I am glad of the company, I am exasperated by the childishness of it all." He had not meant the words, but could not bite them back. She looked away.

"Well, Erik, when one is in the company of a child, one must expect childishness." Her words were precise and cold. He felt the chill of them like a bite but ignored her, returning to his parchment. He was constructing blueprints of the work to be done to return his opera to its former grandeur. It was now the driving mission of his life, and he could force himself to believe that Christine would grow faint in his mind if his thoughts were on labor. He heard her footsteps slapping against the stone floor as she went back into the bedroom. Only then did he allow himself to sink into the small wooden chair. More than anything, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion. He had grown used to her absence, and her sudden arrival and just as sudden departure had unnerved him. His hands shook on the chair arms, and his mouth was dry. He felt as thought he'd caught some disease, and would surely die were he not allowed the cure. It was not his pride but his utter defenselessness that was allowing her to leave. He could not keep her if she did not wish to be kept—he'd attempted it before and experienced a failure he had no desire to repeat.

She returned to the open room, clothed and indignant. He stood, with his eyes upon her cagily. She neither spoke nor retreated as he walked to her. He touched his hand to her shoulder.

"If you must go, then by all means go, but not like this. Don't leave us this way when I am unsure I will ever see you again, unsure if I could ever fix the friendship that has been broken beneath the romance." His voice was tender with the unsteady beating of his heart. She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder.

"I miss the sincerity of you. There is none out there. Raoul…his life has become a masquerade." Erik's jaw tightened at the mention of her fiancé, but he remained silent. "What a fool pride has made of love," she said quietly. His grip on her tightened.

"So you love him." It was more a statement than a question. "Of course you love him. What I mean is…you love him enough to give him your life, and I could not deny such passion. I couldn't once, and again I find myself unable." He released her. "Go."

Tears gathered swiftly in her eyes. She didn't love Raoul, she never had. But once more she faced the dilemma of Erik's safety. It was becoming a familiar situation. This is why she stepped away. The same concern and adoration that had forced her to walk away once again faced her, and she responded the only way she knew how. She went.

The air grew dark around him as she turned to leave. He felt the tears close to racing down his cheeks as he watched her, candlelit, stepping into the gondola.

"You should take me, so that you can return in your boat when I've gone. Otherwise, it will be left at the opposite shore."

"I can easily retrieve it." She stared at the floor for a moment and then glanced back at him.

"Goodbye Erik." She pushed the boat into the deeper waters of the channel, and then set about rowing away into the stony tunnel. It was the second time he'd watched her float away, knowing she would not return. He turned away before the craft had completely disappeared around the bend. He could not contrast this pain with the pain before—there was no comparison. His skin still smelled of her. There was no anger within him, only loss. He leaned against a stone column and closed his eyes, convincing himself that these wounds too would heal. He did not, however, believe the decree, for how can a heart heal when it has ceased to exist?