I stirred softly, but did not open my eyes. Wrapping the warm coverings around myself, I groaned, knowing that if I did not wake up soon I would be late for rehearsals. The last thing I wanted was for the ballet mistress to chide me for my lazy nature. I stretched, preparing to sit up, when I noticed that the bed I was currently in was far larger than the one stuffed into the corner of my apartment. Confusion hit me first, and then a wave of terror and nausea as I finally opened my eyes.
I was in moderately sized room, in a quaint mahogany bed. The only light came from a small lamp on top of an old Louis-Philippe chest, and I shuddered in the darkness. The night before came back to me in a blur of flashes—my abduction, the underground palace, the man with death hands who claimed to love me.
I grabbed onto the bed frame with shaky hands, and slowly let my feet collide with cold stone floor. Glancing to the left, I saw a door, and followed it through. I half expected to see my captor waiting for me, or a slew of other girls in my situation. Upon seeing the clean, abundantly stocked bathroom, I breathed out in sheer relief.
Coming back into my room, I glanced at the light, and noticed for the first time a letter in sharp red ink.
My dear Christine, it read, there is no need for you to worry about your fate. You have no better or more respectful friend in the world than I. For the time being you are alone in this house, which belongs to you. I have gone out to do some shopping and will bring back all the linen and other personal effects that you may need.
I bit into my knuckles, trying to fight back the tears in my eyes. How long was I going to be kept down there? I ran to an unadorned side of the wall, dropping the note in my steps. Finding no door, I screamed for help, twirling frantically in search for a way out. No door appeared, and no one heard my cries.
I bitterly sunk to the floor, my body wracking with sobs. I deserve this, I thought. "Young, innocent Christine, so quick any willing to believe in a voice behind your dressing room mirror," I spat, "the voice of an angel."
I didn't know what to do—I wanted to hit myself, I wanted to laugh, to cry! It was then that I heard a knock at my door. He had come back.
Two more taps, and he came in, leaving the door ajar. He looked like any other man at that moment, with bundles and packages under his arms. He set them down slowly, sighing over my shrieking form.
"Let me leave!" I demanded. "You cannot keep me here forever! I-I trusted you!" His stern face seemed to lighten slightly, but I continued. "You claim to be a honorable man, and yet you hide your face from me. Surely someone so respectable as you can have nothing to hide!" He shook his head, but answered calmly.
"You will never see my face." When I did not speak again, he glanced at me fully. "My dear, it is near two o'clock in the afternoon. Why have you not washed yourself?" My mouth open and shut, and my eyes narrowed. How dare he rebuke me! Me, the girl he kidnapped!
"I'll give you half of an hour, and then we will go into the dining room. I have an excellent lunch waiting for us." My stomach grumbled unconsciously, and I slammed the door after him. Stomping back into the bathroom, I grabbed a pair of scissors I had discovered in the cupboard, and eyed them warily. I decided only to kill myself if he stopped behaving so gentlemanly.
The bath was comforting, to say the least. There were so many soaps piled along the shelves that I could hardly decide which one to choose. I settled for a scented white bar, because I was unused to all of the lavish oils. The cool water helped to clear my thoughts, letting me gain some sense. As I pondered I decided that if I was ever going to get out of this mad estate alive, I had to play a part.
I had to make him believe I liked him.
I breathed in calmly as I stood in front of her door. I could hardly contain a smile at the thought of seeing her again. Against her will or not, she was here with me, and I had never felt warmer, or more alive.
I knocked three times before she came out, and my heart caught in my throat. She was wearing the light pink custom dress I had bought for her. It swayed lightly beneath her as she walked towards me. Her hair was down, and she let her dark ringlets fall down her shoulders. She stared up at me with large, shy eyes.
"The dining room is this way," I managed. She followed, and I found myself pleasantly surprised that she was not attempting to run, scream, or threaten me. I pulled out her chair, and we sat down to eat the rather large lunch I had prepared.
We did not speak for a few moments, and Christine could only stare at the food. Did she really still believe I would harm her?
"Christine," I began, "Let me reassure you that I would never, never harm you. Please, eat." This seemed to calm her worries, because she started to hesitantly pick at the dishes.
"I should tell you what my plans are," I said, trying to sooth not only her, but also myself. When all was said we would both feel lighter. "You—Your presence, Christine…Well, I enjoy it very much; too much to deprive myself of it immediately." She glanced up from her plate.
"I love you," I told her. Oh, how I loved saying it! But thinking she would not enjoy hearing it, I continued: "But I will only tell you so when you'll allow me." She remained silent.
"The rest of your time here can be spent on music, if you wish it." This got her attention.
"What do you mean by 'the rest of my time here?'" she asked.
"Five days," I answered firmly.
"And after that, I'll be free?"
"Yes, Christine. You'll be free, because at the end of those five days you'll have learned to trust me. You'll come back to see poor Erik now and then." Her eyes narrowed sympathetically, and she searched my face with a strange compassion I was unused to.
"Erik…" she mused, and I felt my heart leap unconsciously at the sound of my name on her lips. "Is that Scandinavian?"
"I have no country," I answered, "The name Erik is mine by chance." She nodded. It was a moment before she spoke what I knew was truly on her mind.
"Was there no other way of letting me know you love me other than imprisoning me underground? It is hard to make yourself loved in a grave." At first I felt bitter, but it passed. After all, how could she know of my life, the reason I isolated myself from the world?
"One takes whatever rendezvous on can get," I answered, half avoiding her gaze. I stood up, and held out my hand to her.
"Come, I want to show you my apartment." At first she held out her hand as well, but the moment I touched it she shrank away with a cry that made me weep beneath the mask. I had forgotten, for a moment, how truly revolting I was.
"Oh, forgive me!" I moaned. I would not touch her again, for she did not deserve such a horror. I led her into a familiar room.
"This is my bedroom," I told her. "It's rather curios…would you care to see it?" She answered by following me inside. I watched as her gaze as it lingered on the Dies Irae staffs, and finally shifted to my coffin. She took a step back, as I knew she would.
"I sleep in it," I replied to her silence. "We should get used to everything in life, even eternity." Clearly, she did not share my philosophy.
Christine seemed more than happy to turn her attention to my organ, and the mounting pieces of paper scattered over it. She asked permission to look over Don Juan.
"Yes, I compose sometimes. I began that work twenty years ago. When it's finished, I'll take it with me into that coffin, and I won't wake up." She looked at me with convincing sincerity and seriousness.
"You should work on it as seldom as possible, then."
"I sometimes work on it for two weeks at a time, day and night, and during that time I live only on music. Then I rest for several years."
"Will you play me something from you Don Juan Triumphant?" she asked. I could have easily laughed then, but restrained myself. Perhaps she thought it would please me, but no… I would never play that for her.
"Don't ever ask me that," I replied grimly. "That Don Juan wasn't written to the words of Mozart's Lorenzo Da Ponte, inspired by wine, love affairs, and vice, and finally punished by God. I'll play Mozart for you, Christine. I'll play you anything you wish, save this. My Don Juan burns, and yet he is not struck down by the fires of heaven!" Perhaps she was confused, or bitter. I couldn't tell, and I didn't really care. She had been the one to ask.
We went back into the drawing, and I sat down on the piano. "You see, Christine," I told her, trying to eradicate some of the harshness of my earlier statement, "some music is so formidable that it consumes everyone who approaches it. But you haven't come to that kind of music—luckily, because you would lose your fresh colors and no one would recognize you when you went back to Paris. Let's sing music from the Opera, Christine Daae."
If she took that last remark as an insult, I was sorry for her innocence.
Well, get ready for the super long author's note I didn't post at the beginning. First of all, thank you so much to all my reviewers! I've never gotten such long or in depth reviews, so I really, really appreciated them.
Neo-lover72 – Thank goodness for on line French translators! ;) Thanks for the review!
Miranda7911 – Oops, sorry for the mishap on the first chapter. I don't think she was sitting down at all, lol. Erik gave her a tranquilizer? That made me giggle for some reason, but I wish I had known that before, it would have made my job a lot easier. ;) Thanks for the insight! Oh, and about the half mask, I'll address that at the end, so keep scrolling, lol. Again, your review really made my week, so thank you so much for all of the positive criticism and compliments. If I messed up on this chapter too, or if you just didn't like it, Please please tell me! Thanks so much!
Reading Redhead – Creepy? Darnit. I'll try to go back and fix that. Yes, all the new movie fiction has been getting to me, too. That's why I started this story is the first place, lol. Awwww, thanks so much for the compliments! Again, I really love your input, so tell me what you thought of this chapter, too! I know it's still slow, but it's going to be long, and as soon as she takes off his mask (next chap), there will be a lot more E/C and original goodness not found in the book. ;) Weeeeee!
Wendela – Thanks! Yeah, a lot of the dialogue (Well, most of it, to tell you the truth) is based off or directly copied from the Apollo's Lyre scene. That will change soon, though. And yeah, here's the explanation for the mask.
MASK: Okay, when I started writing this I knew Erik had a full black mask, but I always liked the white half mask better, so I thought, 'hey, what's the harm?' Big, big mistake. It wasn't until I really started to re-read Erik's part in the novel that I realized how vital his full mask is. So please, please try to forget it was a half mask in the beginning, because from now on it is a full black mask. Sorry, I hope this isn't confusing! Thanks for bearing with me!