I would not, could not move. I cowered, trembled before the angel that lay sleeping under my gaze. She was the most beautiful creature, her gentle curls falling lightly over her porcelain face. My eyes traveled to her closed lids, hiding the eyes that had dared to look at me—me! And she was not afraid!
I was terrified. In all my years of longing, I had never wanted anything so bad as Christine. The world could reject me, loathe me, as long as I had her. These last few hours had stirred in me emotions I had not thought to feel with my beloved near me—despair, anger, shock, and finally a disgusting hope and peace. And so I sat foolishly at her bedside, unable to tear myself away.
Yet, in all my ecstasy, my bitter attitude would not let me fully trust in this angel. What if she woke with the dawn, and could not bear to look at me? It would be a worse pain than all my beatings as a child, all my embarrassments, to have to see that absolute terror once more on her face; I still shook to think of it.
Choking back a sob, I tremulously stretched my hand forward, letting it brush bravely against her own. She did not stir. I crept closer, stoking her soft flesh, letting fresh tears spill onto my cursed ugliness. Oh, she was real, and alive!
I glanced hungrily at her before stumbling back, afraid of my own emotions. For her sake, I stood to leave, feeling a great, panging emptiness.
"I love you," I whispered. "I love you, Christine." How I loved to tell her!
I sat in the drawing room, trying to still my thoughts and heart, but I could not do even that, let alone rest. My mind ran over her face, her voice, the words she had said to me:
If I ever quiver again, it will be because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius!
I would prove myself to her; not worthy, for that I could never be, but I would assure her of my love and devotion. I would be her slave, deny her nothing, build alters that I might worship her!
The ever-looming morning weighed on me, however, and I sat, staring into the dying embers of the fire. When the sun rose, she would look at me once more, and I would await my fate at the hands of the executioner, my angel.
My Christine.
I wrestled with the knowledge that I had to get up, and the fear of doing so. I tried to keep my eyes shut, to drift back into a world without Erik, but it was impossible. All I could think about was the night before, and grimaced to see his face. Since failure to escape through sleep was inevitable, I slowly opened my eyes, stretched, and pulled back to covers. Perhaps a hot bath was all I needed.
But the warm water did nothing to ease my mind. Over and over I saw Erik's cries of anguish, sobs of relief, felt him kissing the hem of my dress, and heard his proclamation of love. What was I to do? What on earth could I say to him after an encounter like that? Surely 'good morning' would not suffice.
And what if he was not wearing his mask? Of course he won't be, I scolded myself. After all, I had given him reason to believe his deformity would not frighten me. But as I thought on it, I felt less and less prepared to face him.
No, I thought resolutely, I will not hurt him. I braced myself to the best of my ability, and stepped out of the water. When I opened my closet, I found it still stacked with dresses far too regal for my modesty. Despite myself, I chose I dark blue gown reminiscent of my eyes, and slipped it on. Standing before the mirror, I was rather happy with my reflection. My blonde curls hung toweled dried over my shoulders, and my eyes seemed to glow when contrasted with the dress.
Oddly enough, I wanted to see Erik's reaction, not knowing how he waited for mine.
Deciding to exit my room was a whole new issue. Every time I touched the handle, my hand recoiled as though I had been burnt. I steadied myself, taking in a long breath, as I stood on the threshold of an unrealized destiny.
I opened the door, and my heart beat wildly. But where was Erik? My eyes scanned the room, stopping dead in the shadows. He stood unflinching, hidden in darkness, and seemingly unwilling to come any closer. He is only a man, I reminded myself, and his is only a face.
"Erik?" I asked, trying desperately to steady my voice. He came towards me, little by little. I can't, I thought frantically, I can't look at him! As the light hit his form, I cast my eyes down, not even willing to give him a chance. I berated myself. I was a stupid, selfish girl!
"Good morning, Christine," he said warily. It took every ounce of strength in me to turn my head to towards him. My eyes traveled from his shoes to his rich black evening attire, and stopped at his neck. No longer able to fight, I faced him.
I did nothing but gaze levelly at his misshapen features. Instead of fear, I felt an overwhelming surge of pity for the poor man standing in front of me, helpless to my judgment. Yes, he still invoked in me a strange horror, but it felt somewhat minimized now. I broke the silence.
"Good morning, Erik." He loosened his shoulders, breathing out in unmistakable relief.
"Are you ready to eat?" he asked. I nodded, and he came to stand by me, directing me into the dining room. As we stood closer, I realized he was silently crying.
"I do not mean to be rude," started Christine, and I glanced at her questioningly. Her eyes were still glued to her plate as she picked apart her breakfast. "But…do you know how the ballet girls talk of the Opera Ghost?" I nodded, amused. "Are you…?"
"Him?" I finished for her. She nodded, somewhat uneasily.
"Yes, I haunt the opera house," my voice dripped with sarcasm. "I reserve box five for every opening, and I earn a monthly salary from the incompetent managers." She did not turn to see my ironic smile.
"And do you enjoy this job?"
"Well, I will not deny that I have found it amusing at times. Although, half the things those skittish ballet girls screech about are not my doings. They play obnoxious jokes on one another and give me all the credit."
"I had thought as much. About the girls, I mean. They're always coming up to each other, going as far as to claim the opera ghost has stolen their stockings and garters. Or was that you?" She smiled, her eyes darting to my side.
I laughed, a deep, real laugh, and she joined me in a light chuckle. "No, I am quite sure I have been confused with one of their suitors."
"Was I ever the victim of one of your jokes?" she asked lightheartedly. I tensed.
"Never, Christine." She knew as well as I the subject had shifted.
"When you were tutoring me," she began cautiously, "I know you were standing behind the mirror, but it seemed at times as though you were in my dressing room, above me, all sorts of places! How did you…do that?" I breathed out in a sigh of utmost relief. All she wanted to know about was ventriloquism.
"Have you ever heard of ventriloquism, my dear? It is something I picked up in Persia. It allows me to throw my voice here"—across the room—"here"—hovering over the table—"or here"—my voice nibbled on her ear.
"Goodness!" she cried, giving me a startled glance. "How do you make your voice shift like that?"
"It takes practice," I told her. "Perhaps one day I'll show you."
"Perhaps," she echoed. We ate the remainder of the meal in silence.
Well, here another long list of replies. ;) I'm really freaked out about this chap because it's kind of me branching out, so your criticisms and feedback are really appreciated! Thank you so much for your reviews!
Pickledishkiller—lol, sorry, but I'm sure you did fine. Yes, Christine's point of is annoying, isn't it? ;) Thank you!
Reading Redhead—Aww, thanks! Your review really helped me a lot during this chapter!
Chantel—Yes, the lines ARE close, aren't they? I said they would be. As of this chapter, however, the lines are copyright me. So, yeah…thanks for the review!
Wendela—Too late, I'm already blushing. Thank you so so much! Apparently Erik does have lips, as I've learned a little too late. Oh well, lol. I'd really love to read any fic you'd recommend! What is the link?
Countess Alana—Who wouldn't marry Erik? Lol.
Menacerphan—I haven't decided whether or not this will be an alternative ending. I mean, I really don't want Christine to really fall in love with him or at least not realize it over the course of two weeks. That's a little soon. So I was thinking of extending it, but I'm not sure. We'll see; maybe I'll have a breakthrough.
Miranda7911—I love your long reviews, just to let you know. I went back and read the Daroga's account of the Louis-Phillipe room after reading your feedback, and you're absolutely right. I've been going solely off the Apollo's Lyre scene, so my description of her room was pretty dull. Also, about Christine threatening to kill herself, that was pretty OOC. I get carried away, lol. I really need to go back and fix the breaking on that last chap as well, sorry. Thank you so much!
Yes, those are the lyrics to Othello, at least as far as I know. You can never trust google completely. I don't know the story of Othella, just that it is mentioned quite a bit in PotO. I've always liked Leroux's description best, too. Nose-less men are sexy! ;) Again, this story will most likely be a day by day account of the two weeks they spent together, and from this chapter on most dialogue should be original. Thanks so much!
BlazeoftheInferno—Thank you! You're absolutely right about the pity thing; I was pretty mad at myself over that. I wish ff would let me go back and fix it, but I haven't figured out how. ( And about the lipless thing, yeah…he has lips. My bad, lol.
Ludivine—Aw, thank you! Darn Walmart…you should go to Barnes and Noble. )