Chapter Eight

It was a shame, that the woman had to die as sacrifice for the greater cause.

Truthfully, though dimly aware of the overwhelming odds of some poor unfortunate's death, it had never truly occurred to me that a soul should be offered up unto the heavens as payment, as invocation, of what I wished to come to pass. When all efforts were so blatantly deterred, it seemed my only option, my final, desperate move to accomplish my goals, and it worked—of course. However, I could not presume to attempt convincing you that I felt free of guilt for my actions; on the other hand, I shed a tear for the beauty I had destroyed.

And by beauty, I refer not to the woman who was surrendered unto her Maker.

Alas, I get ahead of myself; allow me to explain in full the events leading up to this "tragedy of tragedies".

Upon deciding that I should make every endeavor to restore Christine's operatic standing, and my own administrative standing, it was decided that my first course of action should be my usual one—threat through correspondence. And why not? It was a plot that had been successful on numerous occasions, failing me only a few times, and never twice in a row. After resting for many an hour in my dreary home, I took a pen and paper to my writing desk, and sat down to make out several pointed letters, detailing my opinion of the cast, crew, and management—the usual, mostly, with no lack of careful intimidation woven between the lines.

I was appalled, the next day, to find the letters circulating through Management's office, causing several good chuckles, and ending their little sojourn in the waste bin. Infuriated, I stole them from the bin directly beneath their noses (causing quite a scene, I should like to say), and immediately returned home to compose far more to-the-point notes.

With each cycle, my words grew harsher, and all to no avail. I considered another killing, but part of my soul still quivered from the last—and, I did not trust my still-recovering strength, for already I was pushing it to its limits, and it seemed guaranteed to fail me any day now. There would be no end to the embarrassment, should I fall to my knees in a stroke while in the middle of an altercation with a stage hand. Inspired more by the latter than ever I could be by the former, I laid out my plans for the second step of coercion: sabotage.

Backdrops fell upon startled singers (but of course, never my darling Christine). Sandbags mysteriously split open, spilling their contents upon cast and crew alike. Catwalks swayed dangerously when those with whom I had former disagreements walked upon them. The managers lost all number of items, from Richard's fountain pen, to Moncharim's cuff links. Both their top hats vanished and reappeared within a day, repeating their act several more times on each manager's journey home. Singers of whom I did not approve fell ill; costumes and entire wardrobes went missing; two ballerinas broke their ankles (though I was careful to not lay a single finger upon Mademoiselle Giry); and still, Christine had not been moved from the chorus—she was not even playing the role of understudy!

Finally, it had become obvious that more drastic measures would need to be taken. I sent a final letter, warning that if she should not sing the lead in the next opera, then there should be the worst of tragedies to befall the Garnier, and it was no idle threat.

In between my busy hours within the bowels of the opera house, I spent what time I could with Christine. My absence was explained away as a visit to England, to see an old friend of mine who had taken ill, and requested that I call on him before he became too ill to accept company. She inquired politely about his health, but asked few other questions about him. I was grateful for that, and in turn asked her several questions about her guardian, her career, and the Vicomte.

The first two I received little enough answer to: "She is well, merci," and "No better than could be expected, I suppose, Monsieur." The third inquiry, however, was met with a sidelong glance, and then a quiet sigh. "Would you care to walk in the park with me, Monsieur?"

I checked my wristwatch, and frowned. I had an appointment in two hours with a closet full of rehearsal costumes, but, upon seeing her widened and begging eyes, could not bring myself to deny her. I graciously took her arm, and led her down the boulevard.

The hour was growing late, and the moon already held claim to Paris's sky. I watched her drift in a milky glow, shining as if truly the angel I thought her to be. She drifted slowly towards a fountain, peeling off one glove to trace ripples across the water's surface.

I chided her for exposing herself to the cold, dried her hand on my sleeve, and immediately tucked her hand back into the glove. With a sigh, she turned away from me, and moved to the other side of the fountain. "Many things have happened since you went away, Monsieur," she said softly, eyes never leaving the sky's distorted aquatic reflection.

"So I have heard," I said carefully, hands poised on the fountain's lip, eyes boring into her. There was something she was struggling to say—I could hear it in her voice—and it pained me to think of all it could be.

"Many things have happened, Monsieur, in my own life as well—not just in that of Paris. She experiences great turmoil, Monsieur—as do I." Her eyes flicked up at me for just a moment, and then retreated back to the fountain.

I was unsure of whether I wished to know the answer or not, but I took a steadying breath, and asked it of her anyway. "What is the matter, Christine?"

She hesitated for a long moment, before turning her eyes down to her hands, and shedding a silent tear. "The Vicomte de Chagny... Oh, Erik, Raoul has asked me to marry him."

The world, quite quickly, dropped from beneath my feet. I believe I gave a physical lurch, for she looked up at me suddenly with eyes brimming with concern, and quickly closed the distance between us. "Please, Monsieur, do not look so distraught!"

"No, no..." I said quickly, not wanting her to think me a presumptuous old man. "I am merely.. shocked... That is all, Christine..."

Her tiny hands wrapped around my upper arm, and she looked up at me pleadingly. "I have not given him an answer, Monsieur," she whispered urgently. "I was awaiting your return, Erik—waiting to see if you would return at all."

Bitterness swept me, and try though I might, I could not fully suffocate it. "What should my return have to do with your betrothal?" I asked sharply.

She physically flinched at the tone of my voice, but her hands did not stray from their grip. "Oh, Erik... For a man so wise as you, you are so ignorant!" Her hands pushed lightly on me, propelling her body away; she soon had her back to me, and was bent over the fountain.

"Christine?" I thought that I understood her words, but if I did, then the meaning of them was.. preposterous—and therefore doubted my ability to divine her meaning. "I.. do not understand..." I reached out a hand for her elbow, and she did not pull away.

She turned her head to look at me, and gave a very strange smile. "No, Erik," she murmured, "of course you don't."

Our bodies grew closer, as if expanding, reaching for one another, and soon she had turned and was facing me again. Closer... and closer... I could not believe what I had heard, and yet it seemed that there was no way to misconstrue such evidence. Suddenly, I was struck, and gave a quick and insistent plea: "Do not wed the Vicomte!"

Christine laughed, then, in the way that only a woman can laugh, when she knows she has more understanding of her gentleman than even he does. A hand pressed against my cheek, and she said something, but her words were drowned out by the peal of the church bells.

She went still, and listened; I could see her counting the rings. When finally they stopped, she gave a little cry, and gathered up her skirts in her hands. "Oh, Monsieur, I must go—Madame will be worried!" Without another word, she rushed away from me, half-running across snow-slick pavement. I watched with my heart in my throat. "Come to the opera next opening night!" she called, running backwards for a moment to speak to me. "Perhaps you will see me perform—I will be the one so far back, you cannot even tell I am blonde!"

"I shall be there!" I called to her. And I shall be far more involved in the performance than you think, Mademoiselle.

"Marvelous!" And then, laughing, she disappeared into the night.


At the opera, in my "box"—a dusty corner within the dome of the Garnier, at a peephole near to the chandelier—I was not at all pleased to discover that Christine was, indeed, once again a member of the chorus. It was as she had said, as well—somehow, they had managed to make her not only obscure, but even more obscure than the other obscurities. My teeth clacked together angrily, and I pushed away, resolving to watch as little of the proceedings as possible.

I allowed the first bit of the performance to go on without consequence. I could see the managers beginning to congratulate themselves; they had not given in, and of course, nothing would happen, because I was only a joke! A superstition, at best! Smiling to myself as best I could beneath the mask, I drifted into position, and pressed my hands to my lips.

When that hideous croak came from Carlotta's silver throat, the entire audience gave a singular, collective gasp. I nearly chuckled aloud with glee, but managed to hold in my pleasure, and instead prepared myself for another ghastly croak. As if rehearsed, she gave another tentative try at singing—and was, of course, met only by failure. After a few more embarrassing attempts, she ran screaming from the stage, and I allowed my laughter to burst forth and fill the stage with its mirth.

A few steps, and I was crouched within the managers' box, cackling with glee, the sound flowing all around them. "Behold!" I cried, too lost in my giddiness to hold my tongue. "She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"

I slipped away from them quickly, making the short trip to the chandelier, and giving a might slash to that one fateful rope that held all others in place. With a groan and a sickening lurch, the beauty, the pride of the Garnier, went crashing downwards and into the audience. I heard many screams, and when I looked upon my handiwork, saw only one face still in the chaos. Christine stood midstage, eyes widened, face gaunt and pale. She looked at the burning chandelier with something almost like recognition in her eyes—and then, amazingly, her eyes rose and found me, my dark shape, crouched above the wreckage and the ruin, and laughing insanely.

My throat constricted, and I immediately fell silent. Surely, she had not recognized my laughter? What foolishness would that be? No, it was impossible!

And then I saw him, pushing through those who were running offstage, fleeing to her side and wrapping protective arms around her. Raoul hugged her close for a moment, before dragging her away, towards her dressing room.

As she ran, she had eyes only for me.

I pursued them, falling into place behind the mirror only seconds before the door was thrust open, and both of them spilled within. "Oh, Raoul!" she cried, sagging against his chest. "Everything is so horrible!"

"You should leave, Christine," he insisted, and from the sound of things it was a common argument. "The man is obviously insane—we must get you free of this place, before something happens to you!"

Instinctively, with nary a thought to the consequences, I allowed a quiet croon to ease forth from my lips. Raoul heard it only as background sound, his mind quickly explaining it away as something within an adjacent room. Oh, Vicomte—if only you knew how right you were!

Christine, however, went rigid. She immediately dragged herself from his arms, and sank into the chair in front of her mirror. "Leave me," she said in a tight voice. "I shall speak with you on the morrow."

"But, Christine—"

"No, Raoul," she said firmly. "I am tired—leave me, please."

No sooner had she gone, than she was prostrate before the mirror. "Angel, I hear you!" she cried, tiny hands pressing firmly against the mirror. "Please, my Angel, come to me!"

I crouched down, my hands dancing against her own, tracing those tiny handprints and wishing for all the world that I could touch them in truth. When I remained silent for too long, she drew back a bit, and looked firmly into the mirror. "My Angel, please!"

In booming voice, the Angel spoke, and he said, "You will stay away from the boy," in the coldest of tones. I trembled, even, at the anger in his voice, and though I tried to restrain him, he would show her no kindness. "You belong to me, Christine—and to no other!"

The Angel swept away from her, fleeing to the dark recesses of his world and dragging me along with him, though my heart remained with her, on the floor of her dressing room, and soaked in her piteous tears...


A/N

Yeah, sorry about the long wait, guys! I had a huge issue with inspiration--but that's fixed now, I think, because I've got tons of ideas again. Can't wait to get this thing going again--and I hope you feel the same way!