The night had finally come. My costume was prepared, and sat off to one side of my bedroom, awaiting my body to fill it. Because of mask-related restrictions, I did not indulge in my medication—what I had come to call it, finding that I preferred that to "the powder"—though I did take a large dose of morphine to steady my nerves, and to give myself courage. I knew not whether I would find the strength to, in truth, show Christine my true self or my home, but I was at a loss for what else to do; I either lost her one way, or I lost her another, and neither seemed to show much hope of any alternate outcome.
As the hour drew nigh, I dressed myself, and secured the mask that so frighteningly resembled my true face. I had almost considered going without mask, to see who would laugh at my "farce" and who would tremble at the realistic quality of my attire. However, for Christine's sake, I had chosen something that would appear far less real, choosing instead to look more of a skull than I already did. Ironic, that the more gruesome choice was actually the less.
"Well, my darling," I crooned, as my hand swept over Ayesha's satin spine, "this should be... interesting, no?" With a chuckle, I bent and, lifting the mask just a bit, pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She did not shy away from those hideous lips, instead head-butting them as if in effort to grow closer. I straightened and resettled the mask in its place. "Au revoir, mon coeur!" I sang to her, before departing.
The ball was lovely, decorated to reflect the splendor of the remainder of the Garnier, each spectacle more dazzling than the last. Had I possessed one, I'd have wrinkled my nose at the overwhelming luxury of it all; however, I did not, so I contented myself with a "tut" and a long stare. I was not yet prepared to make my entrance; I wanted a grand one, and would therefore wait until most of the body of the guests had arrived. I took up a spy's position where I could see all who came and went, eyes focused mostly upon the coming of the Vicomte, and my angel.
They arrived separately, I was happy to find; they had been seen together far too often in recent times, and it was a relief to find that they were indeed still capable of being apart. I myself had seen little of Christine since that fateful day in the Bois; I was, admittedly, a little afraid of what would be said now that such lay between us.
"That is quite the costume, Erik."
I nearly leapt out of my own disgusting skin, as Nadir's voice was uttered in my ear. I turned sharply to face him, one hand flying up to press against his mouth while a finger was pressed to the own carved lips of my mask. "One can see through places in these walls, Nadir, because they are thin!" I whispered. He merely smirked.
"How did you find me?"
"It was not hard. I merely followed the trail of broken cobwebs; if you wish to be truly cunning, Erik, you should keep your passages clean."
I snorted, in spite of myself. "Nadir, to say such a thing, you must not know just how many passages there truly are."
He chuckled softly. "I hope I never shall, Erik; I am far too old for all this climbing and crawling about. I see not how you manage it."
I made no reply, and soon he had left me; not fifteen minutes later, I saw him come through the entranceway, with a peacock's mask tied around his head, and that same ugly hat perched upon his balding head. I could not help but give a small, affectionate smile.
And then, she came. Just when I was beginning to fear she would not come at all, she came, resplendent in the dress the Vicomte had bought her, mask pressed to her face; I almost did not recognize her, except that even from my distance I could see the widened blue eyes drinking in all around her. Raoul had arrived almost an hour before, and called to her from across the room; she did not seem to hear him.
I waited another few minutes, watching almost two full dances before creeping back through my tunnels and coming out near the head of the Grand Escalier. I made a quick once-over of myself, ensuring that there were no forgotten cobwebs lingering upon my person, before beginning my descent into hell.
At first, only a few seemed to see me passing, but slowly the word spread until silence had fallen over all those who stood upon the escalier. They pressed close, none daring to touch me but all hovering within inches, all vying to see that of which everyone whispered.
The Red Death.
I heard them saying it, and allowed myself a smile beneath my mask. My eyes were glowing, I could almost feel it—I could almost see it in my head, as if from aerial view, my own grand self making the slow journey down the escalier, surrounded by those who were in a mix of awe and fear. I saw Christine, mingling at the bottom and off to the side, saw her slowly turn her head to look upon me.
And when her eyes found mine, I was certain, she knew. I think that in that moment, she knew everything that I had not yet told her, though perhaps she did not yet realize it.
I pressed through the crowds, making directly for her. When finally I arrived, all made a wide circle around us, allowing for some room. "Mademoiselle," I purred, bowing to her and extending one gloved hand.
She took it, and showed not a single sign of feeling the chill of my body. "Monsieur..."
I stepped close and curled my other arm around her waist. She placed one dainty hand upon my shoulder, and we began to dance, spinning around the ballroom floor, carried by the music; I do not think that I once considered the placement of my feet, for they seemed to find their homes on the floor without any effort on my part, and I should like to think that she felt the same.
We could not dance forever, and we both knew it; the only difference between our knowledge was that while she considered the end of the dance to be a much-awaited thing, I considered it to be a worse fate than death. I prolonged the dance for as long as I could, and by the end of it her cheeks were well flushed and my own breath was coming quickly, and I knew I could not go on without rest. I did not want to stop, for stopping meant talking, and I knew she would wish only to hear of when we could depart, but I wanted only to stay. In that moment of dancing, all was perfect; the world fell away, and I ceased to be the Phantom, and she ceased to be my obsession; we became only Erik and Christine, only a man and a woman dancing together, two souls entwined in the music, and nothing stood between us. It could not have been better.
"Erik, please!" she cried, breathlessly. "I must stop, or I shall faint!" She was laughing, however; I took that as a good thing, and slowed our pace, before stopping completely and leading her off to the side. She leaned against the wall, fanning herself, and breathing hard, all the harder because she was laughing.
"I was never much of a dancer, before tonight, Monsieur! It seems you have brought out the best in me."
"Or at least," I amended with a grin she could not see, "in your feet."
She met that with a laugh, and I joined in the pleasure.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doom approaching in the form of the Vicomte, and without bidding my lip began to curl beneath the mask. But of course, I turned to greet him with cold civility; it was, after all, the gown of his purchase that my lady had donned this eve.
"Monsieur Sartre," Raoul greeted, barely allowing his lips to part as his head inclined stiffly.
I smiled, though of course that was pointless, and mimicked his motion. "Monsieur le Vicomte... What a great pleasure it is to see you this evening."
His own lips formed something that could perhaps have been akin to a smile, and he said, in the most refined of snarls, "I imagine, dear sir, that pleasure is not that which began a course through your veins upon sight of me."
I laughed, which seemed to unnerve him a bit, but before I could make my full reply I was cut off. Barely had I parted my lips to speak, when a drunkenly-twirling couple slammed into the back of the Vicomte, and threw him against me. I caught him with my hands and quickly shoved him backwards again, but nonetheless he turned an oddly suspicious eye on me for the shortest of moments, before turning to face his attackers.
The young woman turned, and I was not horribly surprised to find a member of the corps de ballet was the perpetrator. Her cheeks were flushed, more with wine than with exertion I would expect, and she could hardly catch her breath for laughing. Her companion was, however, significantly opposite her. He was an older gentleman, older by far than even myself, though he stood tall and seemed to be in the best of condition. He was much less intoxicated than was she—either that, or he merely bore it more regally.
"Oh, heavens," the old man uttered, and I spied him immediately for an Englishman. Upon closer inspection, that became obvious; though his mask was of French make, his clothing was that of an English officer and gentleman, and his French was heavily-laden with the fine and reformed accent of the nobler English. "Please, sirs, forgive us—I am afraid my partner and I were not paying a bit of attention to our passage!"
Christine giggled gaily, locking hands with the ballet dancer. They began whispering urgently to one another, while we three gentlemen—so strange, to include myself in that category!—joined up in a sort of triangle to speak. The old Englishman put a hand on my shoulder, and leaned his weight a little upon me; the other hand went to his thigh, and he leaned upon it as well, his breath coming quickly. "That little sprite has near worn me out!" he said with a laugh, and both of us joined in.
Where once there had been murder in the Vicomte's eyes for both myself and his attackers, now there was only the falsely-produced warmth that every nobleman so quickly learns to acquire. The English officer seemed to be oblivious of this false kindness, however, and took the laughter for an indication of friendship—which, on my part, it was. I had known several good men who were English officers, all of them a generation older than myself, and all of them far greater men than most others I knew.
When this one removed his mask to allow better passage of air through his nostrils, I recognized him for a regular patron of the Garnier, Colonel Aldwyn Sydenham. He had lived in Paris for nigh on seven years, having retired to the glamorous streets after growing too infirm for the African safaris on which he had fed his desire for adventure for nearly thirty years; the English army had had little need of him, and had stationed him in Africa, where there was even less need for gentleman officers, except to curb the growing population of lion and water buffalo on the African plains.
I heard he had also spent some time in India while in the employ of England, having hunted and killed a great number of man-eating tigers in his youth. I had heard it said that he had hunted with that most illustrious of men, John Patterson, the Irishmen who was said to have killed many a tiger and lion in his day (the most famous of which was the pair of lions from Tsavo, in Africa, which shocked and pleased the readers of cheap journals for quite some months, until Patterson destroyed the newspaper industry's money-making scheme by in turn killing the two beasts who had made such a career out of killing his workers). I was not much of a fanatic of hunting, of course—the thought did not appeal to me; I could never stomach killing an animal for sport, no matter how little I minded killing men for such—but it was near impossible to have gone without hearing of the Tsavo Lions at some point.
"This is quite the costume you've acquired, my good man," the Englishman said to me with a grin. "I'd heard some rumor about..." He leaned to one side, looking around at my cape. He took a moment to read what was written there, and then righted himself and smiled further. "Ah, perhaps not a rumor, then. A wonderful costume nonetheless."
"My dearest thanks, Colonel," I said in warm tones. Christine looked up at us, and she and the dancer both moved towards us. I was pleased to have her step up to my left arm and slip her own arm through it; the Vicomte stood alone, to the right of me.
"Who is your friend, Erik?" she asked sweetly, yet pointedly, of me.
I laughed. "Forgive me, my dear—this is Colonel Aldwyn Sydenham. Surely you have seen him about...?"
"Of course," she said, with every social grace; she smiled brightly, and offered her hand to the Colonel, who took it, bowed over it, and kissed it lightly.
"Colonel, this is Mademoiselle Christine Daaé," I said as he did so.
"Yes, I am quite aware," he told me as he straightened. "Mademoiselle, I have had that great pleasure of hearing you sing, and I must assure you, you are quite the magnificent soprano."
Christine flushed hotly. "Monsieur Colonel, you are too kind..."
"On the contrary, Mademoiselle—I could not possibly be kind enough!" He had held onto her hand until that moment, and only released it so that he could turn and catch a glass of champagne as it passed him on a waiter's tray. He gulped it in one breath, and dropped the empty glass onto the next passing tray.
"He speaks the truth, Christine," I said in quiet tones as I leaned close to her. "Perhaps next time, you shall take my word for it?"
She did not reply, except to blush deeper.
"Erik, here," the Vicomte was saying, "had a hand in building this grand building. Would you believe that, Monsieur Colonel?" He ignored the rebuking look Christine cast his way.
"Amazing!" said the Colonel, without guile. "Ah, that I could lay claim to such a task... I knew Monsieur Garnier for a brief time; he is quite the amazing architect, wouldn't you agree, Monsieur Sartre?"
I did not recall having given him my name, but I ignored that slight. In reply to his inquiry, I merely shrugged a shoulder. "He was.. acceptable, but not exceptional, and certainly not without flaw." After a slight pause, I amended, "As an architect, that is. As a man... he was, indeed, exceptional."
I said this with such warmth that I believe even the Vicomte, for a moment, believed that I had indeed worked on the Garnier. All fell silent for a moment, watching the knees of the one across from him.
"Erik Sartre, is it?" the Colonel asked; without waiting for an answer, he continued: "Funny... I don't recall Charles speaking of a Sartre, when he talked of the Palais Garnier. The only Erik he spoke of was... well, certainly not you, Monsieur," the Colonel said with a laugh.
Both the Vicomte and Christine stiffened, and both narrowed their eyes. It was, however, the Vicomte who spoke first. "What do you mean, Monsieur Colonel?"
"Well," said the Colonel with a smirk, "does Monsieur Sartre have a face? For I am told..." and he leaned in closer to us, while the ballet dancer's eyes went wider than saucers twirling upon the fingers of jugglers, "that this Erik had only a corpse's head, and was quite the monstrous sort." Christine frowned, and the Vicomte's eyebrows raised.
The ballet rat squealed. "The Phantom! The Phantom!" Several nearby heads jerked our way, as if expecting the Phantom to have materialized out of thin air; when the Colonel drew her closer and urged her into silence, the heads turned away.
"Yes," the Colonel agreed, "he does sound quite like your Phantom. Perhaps, after building his lovely opera-house, he chose to disappear into the depths of his creation..."
"Nonsense," I snapped, more harshly than I had intended.
The Vicomte turned to look at me, and what I saw in his face caused me to lean back away from him. I suddenly felt the walls closing in around me. "Yes, Monsieur," Raoul purred, "you do have a face beneath that hideous mask of yours, do you not?"
"Raoul!" Christine gasped. "What is this ridiculous—"
"Monsieur le Vicomte," I said in a long-suffering voice, "you have seen my face on multiple occasions—perhaps far more often than you would have liked. You know as well as I that I have a face..."
"Raoul," Christine said sharply, as she released my arm and caught up the Vicomte's. "Dance with me." As quickly as that, they disappeared, and the ballet rat did as well.
The Colonel stepped closer to me, and offered a smile. "Forgive me, Monsieur. I did not mean to call such trouble to your doorstep."
I waved a hand. "An apology is unnecessary, I assure you. I have nothing but suspicion from that boy, regardless of the company and their conversation."
Sydenham nodded, and we both stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching Christine twirl across the dance floor. "She is quite beautiful, Monsieur," he told me softly. "You seem very proud of her voice... Is it your doing?"
I opened my mouth to say yes, but managed to catch myself. Instead, I sighed. "No, unfortunately I cannot lay claim to such an immaculate thing. I am merely... protective of it, I suppose because I recognize it for what it is."
"Mm..." He was quiet for a long time, and was apparently content to stand with hands clasped behind his back, merely watching the two of them alongside me. It was a nice feeling of companionship, one I had not felt since my night spent with Christine on our picnic near the lake.
"I am glad I met you, Monsieur Colonel," I said suddenly, turning my head to look at him. He met my gaze, and smiled, and offered his hand. I took it, and shook it warmly.
"I see not how you can be so cool, in this hot room," he said, laughing. "I feel near to roast to death!"
"Yes... I think I may be coming down with a little something. I have been cold near all evening."
It was then that the Vicomte and Christine returned to us. Christine moved to take my arm again, and I had turned to greet her when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hand reaching towards me. Out of instinct, I jerked away from it, and when I had fallen still again I found it to have been the Vicomte's hand. He made another lunge, and though Christine snapped at him and moved to block his way, he almost sealed the blow. I raised a hand to my mask protectively.
"What ails you, boy?" I snarled, backing away from him. "Have you gone mad?"
"I wish only to see your face, Monsieur Erik!" the boy said, with wickedness in his eyes. "Why do you not wish to show me?"
"The mask is fragile; leave it be, or your boy's hands shall break it," I said to him coolly. He responded with another lunge, which again Christine cut off with her tiny body. Fearing she should be hurt, I reached forwards and caught her arm. "Excuse us, Monsieur Colonel," I said, before cutting another angry look towards the Vicomte.
When he looked ready to move towards us, I pulled Christine quickly away from the scene. We half-fled through the crowd and down an adjacent hallway, not stopping until we hardly could hear the music any longer. I stopped and leaned against a wall; my breath was coming in increasingly shortened gasps, and I was beginning to feel lightheaded.
Christine stepped close to me, and for a moment I thought she would kiss me. Instead, she reached up, and rested her hands against the sides of my neck. "Erik," she said softly, "what is the matter with you?"
"With me?" I laughed. "Do you not mean, with the Vicomte?" My breath had quickly stilled, upon her nearness.
"No, Erik," she told me gently. "I did not misspeak."
"Christine, I am running quickly short on patience for this foolishness," I said, in a voice that sounded sufficiently tired.
Her eyes looked into mine for a long while, before she nodded and drew back a bit. "Forgive me, Erik... It is only that—" And without warning, her little hand jerked forwards, and her fingertips caught the edge of my mask.
Acting with a quickness of the mind that I was not usually known for when it came to my face, I turned my head in the same direction in which her fingers sought to peel the mask, and with a hand on my cheek for added support, managed to keep it in place. When I turned my eyes again to her, I found an angry look upon her sweet face.
"Erik, you are being stupid!" She again reached for the mask, but this time I caught her wrist. "Erik, why won't you let me—"
"Hush," I crooned, in a voice only the Angel could have manufactured. She immediately went still, and I leaned close, to murmur in her ear as my body pressed tight against her own. "Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white... Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk..." She sagged against me, and I led her down the hall, away from life and light. "Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font... The firefly wakens: waken thou.. with me!"
I opened a hidden door, and led her into the dark tunnel, back to the darkness, my eyes on her, my hands over hers. She followed willingly, eyes glued to me, captivated by the voice I used—half speech, half song did I use to recite that lovely poetry to her. "Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost..." A candelabra flared to life, and my free hand held it before us, the other still fastened onto her own hand. "And like a ghost, she glimmers onto me..."
Christine looked near to faint, so ethereal were her movements. She walked as if in a dream, as if brought to life by a puppeteer's hands—or perhaps, more accurately, a puppeteer's voice—and would I think have found herself forever lost, without my eyes to anchor her to the world in which we walked.
"Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars... And all thy heart.. lies open.. unto me..."
Deeper we descended, and deeper, until not a sound could be heard of the world above, until it seemed that we had gone into Hell itself.
"Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow.. as thy thoughts in me..."
A breath slipped between her parted lips, and on it was carried the slightest whisper of a moan. Her eyes had gone ever wider, wider even than the ballet rat's from before, and the only thing that kept her in motion was my light and my hand upon hers.
"Now folds the lilly all her sweetness up..."
This passage skipped the lake, took us neatly around it, which was all for the better since I had not left the boat moored on this side of it. As we descended onto its shore and the damp sand began to roll beneath our feet, she began to come back to herself; I drew her closer, and increased the purr of my voice.
"...and slips into the bosom of the lake..."
An arm curled around her, and I moved to stand behind her, to lead from behind towards my little home which sat so broodingly upon the shore.
"So fold thyself," I sang over her shoulder, "my dearest, thou..."
We entered the house, and the door closed silently and sightlessly behind us...
"...and slip into my bosom," I whispered, as my lips pressed against her ear, "and be lost in me...!"
