A/N: Gah, this chapter took me forever and a day to write, interrupted like 10 times by finals, babysitting, my sister, etc. So sorry about the delay! It hasn't QUITE been a month yet! –sheepish grin-
Disclaimer: All but two segments of the lyrics in this chapter are compliments of the brilliant Charles Hart. I'm sure you can pick out which ones are mine— the awkward ones, of course! ;)
Someone was shrieking— a bloodcurdling noise, sodden with terror.
A cage… cold metal bars, a layer of straw drenched with my own urine and vomit. That same deafening noise… screams of horror, assuaged by the crack of a heavy, hollow branch against my flesh. Bruises, bleeding gashes, too many broken ribs to count. The cries of fright dissolve into raucous laughter. Jeering faces, but complete faces… beautiful and smooth, framed by neat curls. Chants of "the Devil's Child," the gypsy's foot landing solidly in my abdomen. More laughter. The clink of coins, and momentary peace… and thirty minutes later, more screams.
My mind curled in on itself protectively, shutting down senses one by one. It had learned over the years how to survive immeasurable agony, adapting to tortures that no human should ever have had to endure. Instincts long ingrained on my soul pushed forward dutifully, as they always had.
Screams. A carousel of colors, light, and blurred movements. The wild, rolling whites of human eyes… or were they demons? For an eternal moment, time stood still, and the doors of Hell closed in on me.
I turned my blind gaze to the source of the shrieks, and felt a draft on the right side of my face. A gentle breeze from the heating vent rippled through my hair— my real hair— and skirted over the bubbled flesh beneath it.
Terror's white hot fingers gripped my chest with bruising force, slamming the air from my lungs. Sucking in a tremulous gasp for air, I shifted wide, incredulous eyes back to the woman before me.
Why is she crying?
And I saw the mask in her pale hand.
It was if the weight of the universe came crashing down upon me, and for the first time in my life, my weary soul collapsed beneath the unbearable burden. Excruciating pain exploded in my chest, too powerful to be voiced. I am sure it was reflected in my eyes, though… for she broke then, the mask fluttering to the stage from her limp fingers as tears of remorse streamed from those beautiful brown eyes.
How I wanted to hate her. Broken, betrayed, and bared to the jeers and screams of the audience, the caged animal within me clawed viciously to get free, to unleash my unbridled fury on the traitor before me. The fact that I loved her, that I had believed her incapable of such an act, only fueled my rage to the point of hysteria.
But part of me refused to believe she could do such a thing— that she must have had ulterior motives not immediately clear to me. The lame excuse that the Vicomte still controlled her like a marionette fell flat before it could fully form in my mind. Still… the childish, trusting side of me refused to condemn this fallen angel to the same standing as the rest of humanity until I was absolutely certain she deserved the sentence. The two opposing sides battled furiously for ground: the urge to loathe Christine and punish her mercilessly for this unforgivable sin, or the instinctual desire to make excuses for her, to salvage her reputation once again.
Vaguely I noticed cool metal brushing my fingertips, and all of a sudden I remembered the chandelier. Already I could make out the blur of running gendarmes among the horrified crowd. There was no time to stand, paralyzed, in front of those who would just as soon shoot me as lock me in jail. Fueled by adrenaline, I unsheathed my sword and slashed furiously at the maroon rope holding the massive lighting fixture in place. Christine hardly had time to gasp before I grabbed her harshly around the waist, pulling her tightly against me. With a single, solid kick to the trapdoor beneath us, we were falling, Christine's skirt blowing provocatively up around her thighs. She screamed hoarsely as we plummeted through the paper flames and into darkness, clinging instinctively to me.
I would have laughed at the irony under any other circumstances.
I couldn't see. Burning tears tore across my face, whipped from my eyes by the air rushing past us. The stone two floors below seemed to race up to meet our feet, but somehow I subconsciously remembered to bend my knees upon impact. Nevertheless, I had to fight to suppress a scream as tendrils of pain shot through my feet. Christine was a few centimeters above me, and when she hit a fraction of a second later, she lost her balance and toppled forward, throwing us both to the ground.
An awkward moment ensued as my back hit the floor and Christine fell on top of me, her legs straddling either side of my hips. Demonic thoughts pervaded my mind at the sensation— I was still aroused by her seductive performance of just a few minutes prior. We were far below the stage, in my domain; if I were to take her there and then, no one would ever know…
But enraged as I was, my conscience would not allow such an act. Trying to mask my moment of weakness, I catapulted violently to my feet and took hold of the crook of her arm, pulling her roughly toward my lair.
"Please, Angel," she pleaded, throwing her weight in the opposite direction and casting a pleading glance upwards. "Please, let me go!"
I only tugged harder, refusing to be swayed by the affectionate title. The pain coursing through my feet caused my normally feline gait to swagger with a harsh limp. I knew better than to try to hide my agony, for it shone clear as day in my expression. But in a brash attempt to save my pride, I lashed out at her with the most tortuous weapon I could come up with— her one source of comfort in times of anguish: my voice. If it was an angel she wanted, an angel she would have… a dark, menacing Angel of Vengeance.
Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair
Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!
Down that path into darkness deep as HELL…
Christine did everything she could to slow our progress down the tunnel, to no avail. With a violence that would have made me livid enough to kill before tonight, I wrenched at my angel's wrist, undoubtedly leaving bruises on the pale flesh. Shuddering sobs leaked from her perfect lips, but I paid them no heed. Terrible as it sounded, it felt wonderful to inflict physical pain on the woman who had torn my heart from my chest and set it aflame.
Whirling about to face her, I snarled and snapped at her, trying to impress on her the extent of her sin. Of all the people in the world, Christine was supposed to have understood. I had placed every last confidence in her, risking my very soul on the hope that she would be different. My heart bled at the thought of what she had just done— she was no better than the gypsy, who had ripped the burlap sack from my head in countless grotesque exhibits, revealing the monster beneath.
Why, you ask, was I bound and chained
In this cold and dismal place?
Not for any mortal sin
But the wickedness of my abhorrent face!
She understood. Her mouth worked silently, her eyes begging forgiveness. In turn my own gaze bore into hers, a façade of unrelenting fury and accusation masking the helplessness of a frightened, wounded child.
How could you? The question burned insistently in my throat, silenced only by pride. It was so much easier to maintain the pretense of violent authority, while truly my world was unraveling from the inside out. I needed to be in control. At this very minute the Vicomte was probably winding his way down through the labyrinthine cellars, intent on saving his beloved. Either the boy would be killed by one of my many traps, or by some miracle he would find his way to my lair. By this point, I wasn't willing to test my luck.
There was no time to falter now, with the boy presumably in fast pursuit. Knowing Christine to be both submissive and an obedient Catholic, I could think of one irrefutable way to bind her to me forever. Deceitful little traitor that she was, I still loved her, God help me. And painful as the thought had been to kidnap her before, desperate times called for desperate measures.
Those meticulous hours spent poring over every last stitch on Christine's wedding dress would not go to waste after all.
Nevertheless, my conscience howled in opposition to this new, improvised plan. It insisted that I was not in my right mind— that my explosive, impulsive temper would only get me into trouble again.
I told it irritably to shut up.
We reached the lake at last, and I shoved Christine unceremoniously into the gondola, knowing full well that she would not try to swim away; she was terrified of murky water. She scrambled to the front end of the boat, looking at the pole with wide eyes as I picked it up and dipped it into the water, as if she feared I would strike her with it.
One of my heartstrings snapped with a resounding jolt of pain, but I only clenched my jaw and looked determinedly away. Above all things, I could not afford to let her break my resolve.
But Christine was putting up a hell of a fight. Her eyes searched mine imploringly for any sign of the benevolent angel who had instructed her gently for the past decade.
Angel, you know I'd never shun you
Spare me your wrath, listen!
Once again my strength has failed me
Forgive, my kind angel!
Even as her voice ripped at the fragile seams holding my façade together, my tenacity grew stronger. Her tears and whimpered pleas would get her nowhere; I had coddled her for far too long, and look where it had gotten me!
Using this thought as fuel for a new outburst of anger, I turned my fiery gaze back to her, biting out a harsh reprise.
Cunning serpent, you are beaten,
Persephone dragged to the grave,
No use resisting your true role
As the darkness' slave!
She curled into a ball, shaking her head wildly. "Let me go, Erik!" she sobbed. "Please!"
"I owe you no favors, my dear," I spat. To my horror, I felt an insuppressible surge of tears burning my throat, choking the last few words. "I have given you everything, Christine, and for what? You are no different from them!" I gestured fiercely to the ceiling, my lip curled in disgust.
Christine opened her mouth to protest as the hull of the gondola struck shore, but I refused to let her speak. Resorting to another short-lived, temperamental outburst, I gestured demandingly for her to get up, and stooped down to force her when she remained curled in a ball. Her defiance only served to further the rift that I imagined growing between us, and for every millimeter gained, my desperation to draw her close heightened concurrently. Jerking her into my arms, I hugged her to my chest, only further infuriated as she beat her fists and kicked in a valiant struggle to free herself.
Bitter tears cascaded down my cheeks as I lifted and carried her over to the wax replica of herself, my frustration building with every movement she made to scramble out of my grasp. Why couldn't she understand what she was doing to me? Finally I could take it no more; I wanted Christine back, my Christine, who understood my pain intuitively. Grasping for one of my last cards, I resorted to my tragic past—which she understood all too well—as a desperate tool to restore some kind of connection between us.
Hounded out by everyone
Met with hatred everywhere
No kind words from anyone,
No compassion anywhere,
Christine!
By some miracle, it worked. Christine ceased to struggle, and I allowed her to slide to the ground. My hands shook feverishly as I moved them from her waist up to her jaw line, a gesture which might have been intimate not a week ago.
Intimate. It seemed a laughable term now. Any faith I had once held for intimacy had been dashed by the trembling young woman before me. I believed in passion, of course, and perhaps even the childish notion of romance… but for me, at least, I now understood that the sacred bond of lovers would never be known to me.
I had no bond with anyone. Longing and thirsting for the unconditional love of another human being had never done me any good. My own mother had detested me, brushing me away like a hideous, pesky insect; the midwife had suggested that I be dumped in the smoldering fireplace as a newborn; the priest had clucked miserably at the abomination lying in the cradle at my mother's bedside, hesitantly baptizing me in the name of the God who so obviously loved me enough to bless me with the face of a child dead and buried for three months.
What a fool I had been to believe that Christine would be different. Granted, we had shared a so-called "intimate" relationship as teacher and pupil, friends of the night… but it had been as superficial as the scrap of leather covering my repugnant face. The second she had peeled it away, those long months ago in the privacy of my lair, I should have had the foresight and wisdom to back out of our doomed relationship before it was too late.
Now I was convinced that there was no greater curse to the human race than optimism.
But I was too far gone now for remorse and reflections. "Could have" and "should have" would get me nothing. Christine and I had stepped hand-in-hand over the point of no return, and now we would face the consequences, together. It was a slick, steep slope we now descended, with no hope of redemption. Even so, my throat was still thick and heavy with the burden of a single, burning question. Although there was nothing to be done about it now— no backward glances— I had to know one thing before plunging into utter darkness with my fallen angel in tow.
Searching the ashes of Christine's eyes for any last flicker of hope, I asked brokenly, "Why?" She could do nothing but stare back up at me numbly, and I shook her, as if hoping to jar her out of a terrible, hallucinatory trance. "WHY?"
Two runny tears dribbled from her already-drenched lashes as she cast her eyes downwards. Letting out a shaky, frustrated sigh, I released my grip on her and turned away, scraping my fingers through my hair. My energy was spent; physically and mentally, I was exhausted.
Leaning my forehead against the wall of the cavern, I waved vaguely at the wax mannequin, mumbling, "The dress. Take it. You may change in the Louis-Philippe room."
There was a brief, confused silence before Christine asked tremblingly, "We are to be married?"
I glanced over my shoulder at her with raised eyebrows, and it was enough of an answer. Choking on a sob, Christine went to work unbuttoning the back of the elaborate gown, and finally succeeded in freeing it from the mannequin. She threw one last pleading glance at me, but I turned my head away in a blunt refusal to be swayed by her childish pouting.
Only after she disappeared through the red velvet curtain did I collapse against the wall, sinking to the floor as if weighted by an anchor. Tears leaked from my drooping eyelid, stinging the inflamed skin of my right cheek.
I didn't want it to be this way, I thought miserably. Christ, anything but this! She was supposed to be radiant and smiling on our wedding day. I'd do anything… anything…
But I cut off the train of thought quickly. No use dwelling on the impossible. The hope that she might have chosen me of her own accord was dead and buried. I told myself repeatedly that I was doing what was best for Christine— saving her from a wretched life as the Vicomte's wife, where she would undoubtedly be the laughingstock of the Parisian aristocracy. For all his valiance and charming ideals of romance, I doubted very much that the Vicomte understood what he was getting himself into, either. He and Christine would be shunned, gossiped about, laughed at. I knew the elite swine far too well, unfortunately; my mother had been their princess before I was born— an unforgivable blemish on her perfect name. I could picture no worse fate for my beloved, having lived it every day of my childhood.
I could protect her down here, where she would be loved and well cared for. We would thrive on music, living and breathing it until the day we departed this world. Despite what she believed now, she would be happy— much happier than if she chose the life of a despised vicomtess. For now, I needed to remain steadfast and strong, even in the face of her misery. After our vows were exchanged, I would make it up to her in any way she asked.
Sighing again, I climbed wearily to my feet and strode over to my cluttered workbench. Tucked securely in the luxurious velvet folds of my Red Death cape was the dazzling engagement ring I had plucked from her neck at the Bal Masque. I lifted it reverently and stood there for several long minutes, studying the diamonds in the flickering candlelight.
The sound of Christine's bare feet padding on stone snapped me from my trance. I looked up into her clear, bright eyes, and saw a much stronger young woman than the one who had disappeared through the curtain a few moments ago. There was anger brewing in those dark orbs, but I was slightly heartened to see that there was no trace of malice.
Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood? She sang disdainfully.
It appeared we had reversed roles; now it was she who interrogated ruthlessly while I could do nothing but stare at her blankly.
Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?
A humorless smile lifted the corner of my lip as I continued to stare at her, resplendent in the wedding gown I had designed for her specifically. We had been thinking along the same lines, although her question was tainted by fear, while mine was sodden with despondency. As in the tunnel below the stage, I would not take Christine without her consent… and I was nearly positive it would not be given me. Tonight, our wedding night, would most likely be spent in tears on opposite sides of the lair.
Suppressing a sigh, I answered honestly. Despite the plethora of opportunities the Parisian whorehouses had to offer, I had never been with a woman. I did not have the heart to inflict myself— a gruesome monster— on a desperately impoverished girl, simply because I had the money to do so.
That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood
Has also denied me the joys of the flesh
Almost subconsciously, I reached up to touch her hair. Fear crept into Christine's eyes at the gentle gesture— it was as if she preferred my fury to tenderness. She turned away defiantly, and in doing so unwittingly struck an excruciating chord buried deep within me.
I squeezed my eyes shut on tears, trying to expel the image of my mother. She and Christine had a certain resemblance that I had never noted before. They were both strikingly beautiful, of course, with similar bone structures about the nose and cheeks, and full heads of rich curls. But it was not a particular physical trait which linked them now… rather an expression. When I was only a small boy, awoken by a nightmare or some such thing, and I would seek my mother's embrace, that exact same look of immature revulsion would cross her face. By the age of two I had come to vividly recognize that expression, and the fact that when it twisted my mother's elegant features, I had done something terribly wrong.
Monsters were not supposed to touch beauty.
I recoiled, my hand falling limply at my side. As infuriated and dejected by her betrayal as I was, I didn't doubt for a moment that Christine's precious heart would have broken had she known the symbolism of that single, childish gesture. Trying to convey a diluted fraction of it, I continued to sing quietly in an all-too-familiar tune.
This face the infection which poisons our love
This face which earned a mother's fear and loathing
A mask my first, unfeeling scrap of clothing
Christine's shoulders slumped with guilt, just as I had expected, but her shame only added to the burning pressure in my chest. What good would her remorse do me now? She had betrayed me, just as every other person in my life had done. Let her be sorry for it— she certainly deserved to suffer. Now that she had acknowledged her sin, let her face the consequences of it. Spurred on by a brief explosion of temper, I lifted the veil from the mannequin's head and slammed it down on her halo of chestnut curls.
Pity comes too late,
Turn around and face your fate!
An eternity of this before your eyes
She looked up at me with her large wounded doe eyes, and as quickly as my temper had sprung forward, it receded submissively. For an endless moment we stood facing one another, searching the other's eyes. Then suddenly Christine lowered her gaze sadly, reaching up to take the veil from her head. I could do nothing but watch silently as she moved over to the nearest mirror and removed the dust cover, revealing the reflection of the two of us. If I had needed any more persuasion of the contrast between the two of us, there it was, staring back at me with two pairs of reddened, tear-filled eyes: a grotesquely deformed demon and his wide-eyed, cherubic prey.
But the onslaught of disgust and rejection that I had been anticipating never came. Instead, Christine's voice rang out serenely, edged with regret and disappointment.
This haunted face holds no horror for me now
I looked up at her, surprised, like a child awaiting a parent's grim punishment and instead receiving unexpected praise. But as I met her eyes, they hardened with anger, and her voice went cold as she delivered the staggering, fatal blow:
It's in your soul that the true distortion lies
I had not been prepared for the severity of that particular wound. Unable to process or tend to it, I tried desperately to bury it deep down with the others. Rage bubbled up instantly in the pit of my stomach, churning and scorching to get free.
The Vicomte could not have picked better timing to slosh and stagger his way up to the portcullis. My head snapped to attention at the sound of disturbed water, my pupils dilating like a cat's upon laying eyes on its prey.
A malicious smirk stretched across my face as a devious, masterful plan began to formulate in my mind.
No mercy, no hesitation… it is time to bring this war to an end!
A/N: Yes, I know, another cliffie. –hides- I can't decide whether to do the rest of "Down Once More" in one long chapter, or do it in two shorter ones. What do you guys think? Keep in mind, there will be an epilogue too. :)