Ch 3 – Abandoning Defenses

Danielle stood on the stoop before the house on Rue Rivoli. Her breath condensed in a little cloud before her in the cool early morning, and she stamped her foot as she waited for the door to open. Autumn was beginning to descend upon France, the trees changing color, frost rimming the windows. It made her morning trip to the Opera feel even more secretive as she bundled herself inside her hooded cloak. She glanced around the street casually, and blew on her fingertips to keep them warm.

The doorknob's mechanics clicked and the door opened, revealing Darius in a neat jacket and a welcoming smile. "Ah, good morning, Mlle. De Chagny," he said formally, stepping back to let her in. She smiled as the warmth of the house enveloped her and let Darius take her cloak, shutting the cold out with the door.

"Bonjour, Darius. Comment ca va?"

"Oh very well, mademoiselle," he replied and gestured down the corridor. Danielle padded down the thick Persian carpet, Darius following behind, and stopped at the entrance to the main parlor. A man was sitting by the window with a table propped open on the table. When he saw her, he smiled and shut the book. His dark skin was set off by the rich color of his silk robe as he stood.

"Mlle Daae!" the Persian greeted. She smiled and let him kiss her cheek before returning the bis.

"Daroga," she laughed, clasping his arms. Behind them, Darius stoically disappeared into the hallway to make some tea. Danielle had been coming to have tea with the Persian for years; the enigmatic foreigner was a frequenter of the Opera and a close family friend. He had helped Raoul find Christine, but beyond that vague fact he only offered allusions and temptations.

But the Daroga was always willing to give her stories.

He drew her back to the table by the window and offered her a chair. His familiar astrakhan cap was missing, but he didn't often wear it in the comfort of his own flat. He returned to his own seat and studied her for a moment in the crisp morning light filtering through the window.

"Why, Miss de Chagny, you're positively beaming. What has you smiling so?" Danielle blushed.

"Yesterday was very…productive, dear Daroga. You know how I love to have the Opera to myself." She smiled secretly to herself, though. Three pages. They had written three pages last night! Danielle was beginning to view the day as only an advent to when she would see Erik again, when they could sing and compose until sleep overcame them both.

The Persian smiled through her thoughts. "So you have found some new passage or room, then. I'm not surprised." Danielle snatched gratefully at his assumption. It was partly true, after all. The Persian was one of the few who new of the theater's secret warren of hallways and doors, though he never asked Danielle where she had found them. He had evens shown her a few when she was younger, but he always claimed that they were simply shortcuts. What she had were truly secrets.

Well, a secret between her and Erik.

Danielle couldn't pull the smile from her face, so, fearful the Persian would inquire further, she stood and went to the bookshelf. Between dusty tomes and gilt bindings were myriad trinkets: blown glass, a few photographs, ad figures from Persia that never failed to draw her eye. She traced a few of the leather bindings idly, pulling a book or two out.

Something else caught her attention, though. Two silver rings no bigger than the middle of her palm glinted in the light from the window, resting on top of a box holding an old reliable pistol. Danielle had already asked him about the firearm dozens of times, each one more indistinct than the last. The two little rings were an untold story, though. They were attached together, jangling around in a loop, but they were seamless. They reminded her of the legerdemain carnival folk played, pulling them apart and rejoining them with a flourish of hands. She picked them up and started inspecting them with deft fingers. At the table, the Persian took his tea and watched her as he poured.

"Bring those here, mademoiselle," he said balancing the thin china on his ebony fingertips. Danielle turned and dangled the pair from a hooked finger.

"I'm a little old for magic ticks, monsieur," she admitted. She gave the two rings a tug so that they clacked together, but handed them over anyway.

"I am a little high in rank for them myself," he offered in his lilting accent. "I was daroga in Persian, as you so often call me. But these have always entertained me." His hands went just so, and with a swift twist he pulled them apart. Danielle hid her child-like smile as she sat down. The Persian placed the rings in her hand before picking up his drink again. "They were given to me by a man who knew much more interesting tricks than that, but I couldn't help but admire their simplicity."

"What's the trick?" she asked, scrutinizing them again, each in turn. The Persian adopted a knowing smile and set down his tea, holding his fingertips on the rim.

"That, dear girl, is not a trick that can be learned through wisdom or sagacity. It's something worse: this can only be learned with age." Danielle frowned at him and stopped inspecting the rings, but the daroga became taciturn. His dark eyes, instead, inspected her intently. He finally leaned back and sipped his tea again.

The two sat in the plush velvet seats of Box Five, leaning back in the warm light of the gas lamps. Danielle kept her eyes shut as Erik pushed the warm mug into her hands. She heard him sit down in the seat across from her as she breathed in the steam.

"Go on," he prompted, and she could hear the smile in his voice. Her lips brushed the mug's rim, and she took a cautious sip. It wasn't tea like she had expected; it was rich and thick as it slid down her throat. Rich like…

"Hot chocolate?" she said in surprise, opening her eyes to look at Erik. He was smiling above the rim of his own mug.

"Straight from Spain," he said with a nod, licking his lips. "It's so much better than coffee. Bitter stuff, even in Persia."

Danielle smiled and curled up comfortably in the plush seat. She pulled her legs up onto the cushion with her so she could rest the warm porcelain on her knees. "So you've been to Spain, then? And Persia?"

"Yes. But I wouldn't go back to Persia." He fell very quiet and took a long drink from his hot chocolate. Danielle feared for a moment that she had delved to deeply, hit to close to some painful mark. Over the weeks they had grown to know each other, she had learned that there were just some things Erik didn't want to discuss. Mostly they were parts of his past shrouded in mist, memories that he didn't speak of not as much because he didn't want her to know, but because he didn't want to think of them. After a moment he looked out over the theater again. "What about you? Where have you been?"

"Not far," she sighed, glad that it had only been a momentary lapse into that awkward silence. She feared that silence like a poison; she couldn't help but think of it as a great chasm spreading between them. But it came so rarely now that she barely thought of it. "Our estates in Chagny, of course. But besides that, only Scandinavia. It's wonderful up there, so close to the sea. I'd stand out on the beach for hours listening to the waves. I'd be there so long I could mark the tides coming and going. I'd go in soaked with sea spray, the smell of water in my bones, to sit by the fires and listen to stories all night. Sometimes I think that's where the music started, in my head while I was listening to the pulse of the sea. It still frightens me sometimes, the power of it all. The music…sometimes its so insistent to be written down, to be played. It makes you forget to eat, to sleep, to breathe. It just consumes you with a…a…" She paused, trying to search for the right word.

"A passion." She looked back at Erik, who had the same look of understanding in his eyes. Danielle nodded with her faint wisp of a smile. "It's like the pulse that drives your blood. I know it well." He rose from his seat and went to the little shelf in the back of the lodge to pour himself some more drink.

"Would you like another cup?" She blinked and looked down at her mug still half full. Erik shrugged and sat back down, taking a long drink.

"You like chocolate, don't you?" The smile that grew on her face made him scowl at her. "Don't you!"

"Alright, fine, I do. I have it so rarely, no one to buy it for."

"Why don't you buy it for yourself?" He shrugged again. The topic of his mask didn't seem to even register in either of their minds. Danielle ran her finger around the edge of the mug, thinking curiously. "Well, if you don't like bitter you can't like dark chocolate. Milk chocolate's what's in this, so…?"

"White," he interrupted. Danielle smiled at him playfully, and he nearly couldn't manage his scowl over his smile. "What?" he snapped.

"Nothing," she laughed. "I'll just have to get us a box. You can come to the house by the sea, and we'll sit and eat white chocolates all night." She laughed again, and Erik actually chuckled. It was a wonderful sound, rare and precious like diamonds. "Tell me about Spain, then." He abruptly set down his mug and stood, offering her his hand.

"I'll do better and show you." Danielle stared at his hand for a moment before putting down her cup and standing up. He led her down through the deserted stairway to the stage. Danielle waited curiously in the dim light as he searched through a costume closet. "In Spain, dancing is to them what music is to France. And since we are in a theater, we might as well take advantage. I brought these up fro the next time we sang Don Juan." When he turned around he had a beautiful, lacy dress folded over one arm. Danielle gasped and lifted it up, admiring it. "It's Aminta's dress," he said, referring to the lead part Danielle always sang. Over the weeks she had grown more and more familiar with the part, falling in love with Erik's score. He had even told her to sing it at her level, more of a mezzo-soprano like he suggested, saying that it didn't have to be as written so long as it was sung well. He turned and grabbed another costume for himself while she fingered the lace of the skirt. "I'll give you some privacy," he said softly.

Danielle waited while he went to the other side of the curtain before slipping off her own dress. Aminta's costume fit wonderfully as she smoothed if over her waist, almost wishing she had a mirror to judge herself in. She left her soft boots with her dress as she went to stand at the edge of the curtain. "Erik," she called softly, and finally came across the makeshift barrier between them. With just his back to her, he looked magnificent. The Spanish garb accentuated his strong shoulders, and he was holding a matador's cloak in one hand. He set it carefully on the floor, though, at her voice, and turned, paused when he saw her in the dress.

"You look beautiful," he praised, looking her up and down. She smiled shyly and wrung her hands. The look in his eyes turned to concern, and he came to put his hands on her bare shoulders. "What is it?"

"Erik, I don't really know how to dance." The concern in his eyes quickly melted into fondness, and he laughed quietly.

"Come now, Danielle. You've watched ballerinas and chorus girls for long enough." He pulled something from his pocket and pinned a silk rose above her ear. "It's all about the emotion behind it, anyway. The passion." He led her onto the stage and guided her hand to his shoulder before placing his on the small of her back. His other hand clasped hers strongly and stretched out her arm. He angled her in such a way that Danielle realized with a slight blush that she had to lean against him.

"It's alright," he said, "you're supposed to lean. The dance," – he took a step, guiding her with the hand on her back – "is meant to meld the dancers into one being, until it is no longer a dance. It becomes something else, something more." He took another step, and Danielle found herself reflecting him. With him guiding her, she almost anticipated his steps, tangoing in perfect tandem. The awkwardness she always felt while dancing seemed no more than a figment of her imagination, the grace she felt while fencing there instead. His body was firm under hers, the lines of his muscles fitting her own contours perfectly. She stepped in front of him, and he matched her. "Now step," he instructed, and paused her with a slight squeeze of her hand. "Keep your right foot planted just so…Relax…"

"And…?"

"Trust me." Danielle let her body relax, and Erik suddenly spun her around, twisting so that he held her close to the floor. His hand on her back and hers on his shoulder supported the move until Danielle felt she could let go entirely of his other hand. For a breathless moment they stayed like that, and then Erik reversed the step and pulled her back up. She landed against him with her hands on his shoulders, breathing heavily with exhilaration.

"I won't let you fall," he soothed gently. She smiled and looked up at him. They were so close each could feel the other's hear beat, staring deeply into each other's eyes. "You have green in your eyes," he said, sounding surprised. He gently brushed some of her hair back, the better to see the splash of hazel in her brown eyes. "I never noticed."

"No one ever does," she replied quietly. "No one's ever close enough to notice." She was staring into his own eyes, where the sorrow she had so often seen deep within had vanished. She could still smell the chocolate on his breath, so warm on her cheek. He unconsciously held her closer, and her hand slid from his shoulder to his arm…

Erik's hand suddenly slipped from her back, and he took a small step away, distancing himself from her. "You should go," he said, looking away.

"What?" she gasped. He had caught her unawares, and she felt unexpectedly very small without him beside her, naked in a cold wind. She blinked at him in confusion. "Did I –"

"No," he said gently. His hand moved to clasp her shoulder before he hesitated and drew it back. "You have to sing tomorrow, and it's already late." The excuse sounded weak in his own ears, and he had to resist the urge to take her back in his arms and allay the confusion in her eyes. As they stood there that dreaded silence stole around them. Erik couldn't move as she slowly walked past him, blinking tears she didn't understand from her lashes. As he heard her clothes rustle as she changed, his back began to bow and his throat to tighten as the silence between them grew heavier. What had he just done…?

Behind him, Danielle pulled the silk flower from her hair and smoothed some of the fabric petals. One hand brushed angrily at the dew drops against her eyelashes, unable to comprehend why they were there. She studied the flower in her palm for a minute as she steadied her breath. Not a single petal bruised, a perfect, lifeless reflection. She glanced back up at Erik, who had one hand to his masked temple. What trials had bruised him? What unbidden memory had she accidentally resurfaced? She barely thought of his mask anymore: her parents kept so many secrets, he was entitled to his own. But how many secrets could a soul bear on its own?

She impetuously dropped the flower and rushed up behind him, throwing her arms around his waist. Erik started terribly and nearly jumped from her grasp, but he remained where he stood. Danielle rested her cheek on his tense back, wishing that she could convey everything she felt through that touch. His muscles slowly relaxed as she continued to hold him. "Can I come back?" she finally asked, afraid it would be denied.

His sigh was heavy as she heard it through his back. Erik's hand eventually came to rest over hers on his middle, and she tightened her grip on him unknowingly. "I would like that," he said softly. She didn't see the sadness that flooded his eyes, more powerful than before. It was a long time before she unwrapped her arms from his waist. Erik's hand remained where hers had been as he watched her walk down the aisle, fingering her cloak before shrugging it over her shoulders. Her farewell was soft-spoken before she turned and shut the doors.

"You sad fool," he said when she was gone. Erik turned his back to the doors and angrily tore off his mask. "You pitiful sap. You've let yourself fall in love again, haven't you?" His knuckles were white as they gripped the white porcelain. "You have let yourself fall in love, when you know that it can only end in pain!" With a feral howl he threw the mask to the floor. It broke into pieces with a crash that left him staring at it, panting heavily.

"Pain for her. Pain for you! You damned fool!" The theater echoed his anguish back cruelly, and he looked up painfully as they berated him on and on. His shadows. His chains.

"But…why?" he pleaded to the shattered porcelain, to the shadows. "Why can't it ever be me? Why can I never win?" The problem was, he like it. Christine hadn't cast her shadow on his thoughts in weeks. He enjoyed his time with Danielle, looked forward to the nights she would come to him. He almost preferred when they just sat and talked to when they sang. And her music…

Oh, that was the worst of it all. They both could sit for hours composing. He never wanted those nights to end. He was falling in love with her eyes, those eyes that never showed pity for more than a flicker of an instant before it was followed by determination.

But how long could it last? How long before her curiosity won out?

Did he have to end it before it shattered into a million pieces when she finally saw the monster beneath the mask, when she finally knew his past? Could it break her anymore than it would break him?

"Just let me have one more game," he said, crouching to pick up the pieces of his broken mask. "One last game. And when it's over, I can stop playing pretend for good." The shadows seemed to consider it, like an executioner judging the condemned's last wish.

Erik could have his one last game, one last piece of joy. And when his mask finally came off, then it could all be over. All be blessedly over.