Chapter 18

The return to my home was accompanied by maniacal laughter, which rang eerily through the caverns surrounding my humble residence, and bounced back from the walls to rejoin me again. It was a shame, in part, that Nadir had been forced to fall along with the boy, but what was done was done. His loyalties obviously were no longer mine, regardless. The foolish man… After so many years, he should have known better than to cast his lot against me. They all were against me, now—it was only Erik, only Erik against the rest of the world.

I unlocked the study door, and stepped within. For a moment, I could not find Christine, so distracted was I by the war zone my room had once again become. That room, which I had demolished on that day which seemed so very long ago—that room, which I had then spent so many days repairing to its former elegance—had been destroyed anew. Books and papers had been strewn about the room; a chair had been broken against a wall, and its leg used in an attempt to pry open first the study door, which had not given—only splinters of the door jamb served as testament to its struggle; the leg had then been turned against the door to my little storeroom, which had opened several inches before the chair's leg had broken in the strain. Its remains lay close by.

Eventually, my eyes found her, lying dazed in a far corner. She had not noticed my entrance, and continued not to notice as I stalked angrily towards her. As I neared, my eyes picked out the blood on the side of her head, which had matted in her hair; a large splotch accompanied it upon the wall, and streaked down to follow the path her sweet skull must have taken as she sagged to the floor.

"Christine! What have you done?" I demanded as I grabbed her arms and lifted her upwards. She gave a weak groan and fell limp against my chest. I carried her over to the chair behind my desk, which still bore the scars of our last disagreement. She very nearly fell into it, slouching down and remaining lifeless. I patted her cheek a few times, and received not even a blink in return for it. Stomach turning cold with dread, I turned away from her to find my smelling salts.

No sooner had I put my back to her, than I heard a rustle and a harsh intake of breath. I turned again, and found her with a letter opener, its point mashed threateningly against her breast. I took a step forwards, and she pressed the makeshift dagger harder against her own breastbone. "Don't, Erik!" she warned, in a broken voice. Blood from her head was seeping down through her golden hair to mingle with the tears flowing free down her cheeks. Both dripped onto her chest, traced lines around the pinprick of blood welling where the "dagger" pressed.

I moved as if to come forwards, and she opened a full wound, so hard did she press that "dagger" against herself. I sucked in a breath, and her eyes narrowed. "Don't come any closer, Erik," she warned, voice trembling, but firm all at once.

"Christine…" My own voice felt weak and broken in my throat, though my ears heard it differently. I leaned one hand against the corner of my desk; she watched it suspiciously. "Am I.. so terrible…?"

Her mouth opened, and then shut firmly; she knew better than to try an answer to that. No, she merely looked at me, and held that knife against her. A drop of blood rolled down between her breasts, and vanished beneath Marguerite's costume.

In one singular motion, I launched myself at her and snatched away the letter opener. She gave out a cry, and tried desperately to escape me; I pinned her against the chair, as I threw the "dagger" across the room. "No, no, no!" she cried, and suddenly desperation turned her limp with misery.

I used the Punjab to tie her down; she hardly struggled, reserved most of her energy for weeping. When I had finished, I found myself caught there, hanging in that moment so near to her. I could smell her sweat, her fear, and the perfume she always wore on-stage. I leaned a little closer, put my corpse's face so close to her neck, and inhaled deeply.

She whimpered, head straining to lean away from me. I breathed out against her skin, and she shivered. My hand came to rest upon the other side of her neck, as my head rose from her a bit. "Christine," I murmured softly. "I am not so dreadful as you think me to be…"

Christine strained harder, trying so desperately to keep away from me. "I will not be Death's consort!" she cried out. "You will not make me into that woman, Erik—so lifeless, so cruel! I won't let you!"

I stood, and backed away from her. Somewhere far away, I knew that those words had killed me, knew that my heart was broken into far too many pieces and scattered all about the dirty streets of Paris. But that part of me was many hundreds of miles away, drifting through the desert sands of the Persian lands, lost and confused there, but happy, for it was so very far away from the troubles and pains to which this other part of me had just borne witness.

"Very well," I said, breath exhaling with almost a growling sound. Where I was now, I had no heart to break—I would deal with that other part of me later, much later. I would let her kill me later. For now, I faced her with dry eyes and a cold smile, made all the more chilling by my awful countenance. "My dear… I have a surprise for you…" And I laughed.


I snatched hold of the back of her prison-chair none too roughly, and dragged her out of the study and down the hall. I shoved her into the parlor; her chair went rolling wildly within, slowing only after it bumped the sofa arm and began to spin somewhat lazily away. I slammed the door shut, and stalked within, but did not go to her. Instead, I went to the back wall of the parlor—a bare wall, adorned only by a painting. I lovingly lifted the painting aside, propping it against the back of the sofa. Beneath it lay a small square of wall, somewhat at odds with the rest of the wall. It was one of my more obvious door handles; I had made it so purposefully, for there was nothing I loved more than for the unsuspecting to stumble upon my special room.

I pressed my fingers against that square, and the wall panel rolled back to reveal a glass wall. "We can see them, Mademoiselle," I said with a laugh, "but do not fear—I assure you, they cannot see us."

When I turned to her, however, I was annoyed to find that her chair had turned itself away. I walked over and rather forcefully turned her towards that glass wall. "Behold!" I cried, with a flourish of the arm. "Your brave saviors, Mademoiselle Daaé!" I reeled back in a fit of laughter as she cried out in horror.

The Vicomte and his new friend were both trapped within that frightening room, that most horrible of rooms, that most magnificent of my inventions. They were crazed already, though it could not have been more than half an hour since they had fallen. Raoul was stumbling about the room like a madman, while Nadir was systematically pressing his fat fingers against every inch of every mirrored panel he could reach, though he seemed to occasionally pause, as if uncertain of where he had originally begun.

"My God, Erik, what have you done to them?" she demanded of me, as her tears increased tenfold.

I cackled gleefully, like a child whose prank has gone exactly according to plan. Everything seemed so perfect, so flawless. For what more could I have asked? –No, better not to ask that question. There were too many answers.

"That, my dear heart," I told her gladly, "is my greatest invention. It is a torture chamber, Christine! Do you see the forest? Can you see it?"

She shook her head, trembling. "I see only a tree, and mirrors, Erik… And it is hot!"

I laughed. "Were you within that chamber, you should think quite differently. It is not only hot, Christine, it is deadly in that chamber! It is as hot as an African forest, and there is nothing at all to drink." I lowered my head, looked at her for a moment as if serious. "Can you imagine that, Christine? Being always thirsty, and never able to drink?"

Raoul was beating his hands against a mirror and calling out—he could hear us. "Christine, Christine!" he called, his voice muffled behind that thick glass. "Stop it!" Nadir was shouting. "Stop it, stop that! Vicomte, stop it!"

But Raoul would not—he had heard the voice of his angel, and somehow took it as meaning salvation. "Please!" he called. "Please, Christine! Christine!"

I could not help but laugh, at the way he called to her, as if she held the power of his life and death. But then, I supposed, he was right to call to her, for she did hold that most important of keys. She was exactly the one who would dictate how many lived on this night, and how many died.

"Erik! Erik!" she cried out, trying to turn her face away from the sight before her. "Please, stop this! Let them out of there! Oh, Erik, I cannot bear it!"

I turned her chair away from the sight, turned her to face me. She slowly opened her eyes, red and swollen with tears, and allowed her lips to part. She saw my resolve softening, saw my will weakening, and she saw her chance at success. However, before she could speak and further destroy my confidence in my actions, I ever so gently placed a hand over her mouth. "A moment, my dear—allow me to speak," I said, in gentle tones; she nodded slowly, and I lowered my hand.

"I've a deal to make with you, Christine," I said slowly. "There is a choice you must make, and when you have made it, you will have sealed the fates of many." Her eyes widened; she felt the walls of the trap closing around her. "Before eleven o'clock, my dove, you must have made your choice: the Requiem mass, or the Wedding mass." I stood, and walked to the glass wall; with a brush of my fingers, the wall panel closed across it again, sealing away the sights, though not the sounds, of the men on the other side.

"Erik?"

I walked across the room, to the fireplace mantle, where I placed two figurines: a grasshopper, and a scorpion. "These are the keys to life and death, Christine. Turn the grasshopper if you wish never to see me again—turn the scorpion, if you would have me as your own." I turned away, but then paused. "And remember, Christine—when the grasshopper jumps, he goes so very, very high."

"Erik, no," she whispered, as I slowly untied her bindings. "Erik, don't do this!" she begged, turning and catching my wrists in her sweet hands. It was, I think, the first time she had made a move to voluntarily touch me, since the night of my unmasking.

I lingered beneath that touch for a moment, caught by the feeling of her soft hands, so hot against my icy skin. For a moment, I could almost have sworn that those fingers moved just a bit, caressed the skin beneath them just a bit.

No, I realized—it was fear and disgust that caused her to tremble. She hated me. I jerked my hands away from her, and went to the door of the parlor. "I've an errand to run. Please, Christine—do not do anything stupid, while I am gone?" I shut the door before I could see the heartbreak in her face.


I pounded my tiny fists against the parlor door, screaming for him to come back. My voice already was shattered, such screaming had I done in the hours leading up to this one; I could taste blood in my throat, and even bleeding seemed to deepen the wound, if I did it too quickly. And yet still, it seemed I knew not what to do except to call for him, beg him not to leave me to this fate. "Erik!" I cried, again and again, but never did an answer come.

Finally, I did hear an answer, but not from Erik—a sharp whisper came from the torture chamber's wall. "Christine! Christine, can you hear me?"

I rushed to the wall, pressed myself against it—immediately regretted that, for the wall was scaldingly hot. I jumped back with a cry, and then stepped close again to it. "I hear you!" I called. "Nadir, is that you?"

"Yes, Christine!" he called, and I felt suddenly so relieved that I almost collapsed. Always in the past, Nadir had known what to do. So many times, it seemed, he had rescued me; surely he would do so now, as well?

"Nadir, oh Nadir… Whatever shall I do?" I sobbed. "What has happened, Nadir? Why is he so angry?"

He was long silent, as if very carefully considering the answer he would give. Finally, "Must you truly ask, Christine?"

I gasped in a sob, as pains of the worst kind vibrated through my frame. "Oh, Nadir…"

"He saw you, Christine," the gentle voice said. "He saw you, many times, while he was ill, and I told him what you wished—that you were not here, though still I do not understand—and then what could he believe but that he had been dreaming? He thought himself betrayed, wholly and fully…"

"Oh, Erik," I breathed, slumping to the floor. "I am so sorry…"

"Christine?"

I shook myself from my reverie. "Yes, Nadir? …How is Raoul?" I added as an afterthought, driven almost by some strange remnant of propriety.

He hesitated. "The Vicomte is… not well, Christine. You must listen to me." I leaned closer to the wall, obediently. "He will destroy us all, Christine. He will destroy every last one of us; the way he speaks, it is language of the sort I have not heard since our days in Persia, Christine. Erik does not threaten lightly."

I shook my head, eyes falling down to Marguerite's skirt. "This is not Erik, Nadir, who is making such awful threats. Erik would never…" I sighed, suddenly at a loss for words. "I have to find Erik. That is how we will survive this awful ordeal. Without Erik, we will all be killed."

I heard a click behind the wall, and Nadir gasped. "A passage! Christine, I have found a passage!"

"Be careful!" I cried. No answer came, and I was left at the wall in silence, my gaze unwillingly drawn to the two black coffins which bore my crucifixion, or Erik's salvation. Those figurines seemed so innocent, as if they played such an unwitting part in our elaborate opera. Erik had written this one well; I wished only that I knew how it would end. Better yet, I wished it could end, and then I could leave the theatre and go home, wished I did not have to live with the repercussions of this finale.

"Allah have mercy," I heard Nadir say within the chamber. My head cocked towards the wall again, though the figurines continued to exist on the edge of my consciousness, as if threatening me still with their ominous presence. "He is going to demolish the Garnier!"


As I neared the parlor door, I heard quick and frenzied voices. "Quick, I hear him! He is coming, he is coming!"

I opened the door, surprised to realize that I had forgotten to lock it. Strange, that Christine had not even thought to try the handle. I stepped within and found Christine lingering in the middle of the room, unsure of where she should be. I closed the door behind me, and walked towards her, with a mass of beautiful white lace draped over my arm.

"I've a gift for you, Christine," I said softly, extending the thing towards her.

"Another dress, Erik?" she asked with a smile, as she took it from me. The sweetness, the playfulness in that voice took me off-guard; I leaned back on my heels, and regarded her suspiciously as she looked at the dress.

Her mouth formed into an "O", and I saw some of the lightness fade from her gaze, though she tried her best to hide it. She turned pale, as she looked at me. "A… wedding dress, Erik?"

"Or your funeral gown," I said coldly. "It is whichever you prefer, my dear." I turned away from her, clutching the encased and completed score of Don Juan Triumphant to my chest. Whatever my fate, it would follow with me—if she brought me into the light, then it would come as well; and if she resigned us all to a fiery death, then so would be the score's fate.

Christine clutched the dress to her chest, watching me with terrified eyes. "Erik…"

"Put on the dress," I said, my voice now lacking in emotion. I felt suddenly drained, numb and cold and empty. I could not help it—it seemed so fitting.

I turned away from her, turned to watch the empty fireplace, and the two sweet statues which lurked upon its mantle. The grasshopper and the scorpion. Life and death. Her life, my death. Or, perhaps, it was she who would die, regardless of what choice was made. I wondered if it would be she bringing me into the light… or me, dragging her into the darkness, without even a trail of breadcrumbs to show her the way home?

"Erik?" she called softly; I turned my head to one side in answer, though my eyes were downcast. "Erik," she tried again, "how do I look?"

I turned to face her; with many a rustle, she turned a little circle for me, and then fastened her eyes onto mine with hope burning fiercely within them. I let out a sigh, and pressed my hand against my aching chest. "You are beautiful, Christine," I breathed.

"And now, another gift for you," I said, pulling two sweet powders from my pocket. "You see, Christine, there is no need for me to ever be ugly again." I mixed the powders upon the table, talking to her as I prepared the needle. "I can look as you wish me to look for eternity, Christine. No masks, no ugliness at all. I can be beautiful, like you are, Christine. You will see."

I turned back to face her, and rolled up my sleeve. My gaze lowered to find the needle; when it rose again, I found her standing next to me. Her sweet hand moved to cover the abused veins on my arm, and her eyes met mine. I could hear my heart beating loudly in my ears, could feel my pulse drumming against the back of my skull as I waited, breathless, longing to hear what I hoped she would say.

"Don't," she whispered, her other hand taking the needle and casting it aside.

"Christine! Christine!" The boy was screaming again, fists pounding against the wall. I could hear Nadir trying to hush him, but once again it was no good. Christine's gaze remained on mine for a moment, and in that brief moment, I was certain I had won her.

"Christine, please!" the boy cried, and this time, her eyes twitched. It was just a bit, but it was there nonetheless, that desire to go to him. Roughly I pushed her away from me. "Go!" I growled. "Go and try to comfort him—little good it will do you, or him!" I said with a snarl.

Cunning child that she was, she pressed that small square, watched as the wall panel drew back once more. Raoul was stumbling about blindly again, with a pistol pressed to his temple. Christine screamed, and threw her hands against the glass. It was only a heartbeat before she had cried out again, and jerked back, with blisters already forming on her hands. Nadir half-tackled the boy, throwing him and the pistol down. I watched, uninterested, as their little drama played out. What did it matter, if the boy shot himself? He would die anyway…

I must have voiced my sentiments aloud, though I did not realize it; Christine turned to look at me, hands cradled against her chest, tears flowing anew. "You horrid man!" she cried, anger suddenly turned against me. "You wicked, terrible beast!" She flew at me, injured hands curling into fists, which began to beat against my chest for a moment, before she merely went limp with crying.

I caught her as she fell, and her fists grabbed hold of my jacket's lapels. "I hate you!" she hissed, even as she collapsed against me, her head burying into the crook of my neck. I felt her tears against my throat, felt them running down beneath my shirt and onto my shoulder and collarbone—a few even found their way in a trickle down my chest, before being caught up by my shirt's fabric. Aching, I clutched her against me; she did not seem, for some reason, to much mind it.

We stood that way for a long moment, brought together by pain and heartache, a mutual dissatisfaction with one another, and with our respective lives and how they were playing out. It was not a bad communion, for the slight time that it lasted. Finally, however, her tears began to subside, though hiccups of sobs still remained. In a half-whisper, she said again, "I hate you, Erik."

One corner of my lips lifted in a humorless smile. I pulled back just enough to look down at her; she met my gaze with a frown. "You loved me, once," I said.

Her eyes fell to my chest; fists slowly released my now-wrinkled lapels, and made an attempt to smooth them. "Yes," she said, sounding sick with grief, "that night in the park, Erik, I loved you wholly and truly."

"You knew, then, didn't you?" I asked her slowly. "You had suspected already, and then, you knew?"

She sighed, and took a step backwards. "On the contrary, Erik… I thought. It made sense, but I could not connect all the tiny pieces, pieces which now seem much more obvious." I nodded, eyes turning down to the floor. Christine's hand raised to touch my cheek, and caught a solitary tear which had leapt from the rim of my eye to its death.

"I am sorry, Christine," I whispered, as hysterical sorrow began to overwhelm me. I felt the gasps tearing my lungs, whistling in and out in too-quick succession. I fell to my knees, and for a moment thought the pain of that impact would kill me.

"Why did you do it, Erik?" she insisted, as if afraid I would die at her feet, and certain that she must have her answer first. "Why? Why did you do it? You must tell me, Erik!"

I let out a horrible sob, and fell prostrate at her feet. My hands covered those sweet appendages, caught up the hem of her dress and pressed it to my lips. "For love," I panted, and cried. "I did it.. for love… Only for love, Christine… I did it.. because I love you…!"

She was crying as well, as she fell to the ground and put her soft arms around my neck. I returned the embrace out of reflex, though I was uncertain why she was hugging me. And oh, but she clung so tightly to me, as if it meant life and death! Her sweet face pressed against my neck, and she held herself tight to me, and I held myself tight against her as the halo of her golden hair surrounded me.

"I was there, Erik," she whispered against my skin. "When you were ill—it was I who found you, I who nursed you, I who sang to you when your fever-dreams turned to nightmares. I was there every day, and every night, until you became well…"

I hesitated, finding myself somewhat stunned. "Nadir said…"

She shook her head against the skin of my neck. "A lie, Erik. A stupid, foolish lie… A lie borne by pride, and anger—but a lie. I was there, Erik."

Relief washed over me in a tidal wave; I kissed her hair, one hand pressing against her lower back as the other cradled her skull, lovingly, tenderly holding her to me, and my body reveling in the closeness, in the unity that I suddenly felt with her. The world seemed suddenly flawless.

She pulled back, and her eyes found mine. With a quiet smile, and eyes so innocent and honest that I was immediately seduced, she asked of me, "Please, Erik—open the chamber. Let them go. We have no need of them now."

As if enchanted, I stood, and she took my hand and walked with me as I moved towards a far less obvious trigger. My fingertips brushed it, but did not press; instead, I turned to her, and frowned. "You have made your decision?" I asked.

Christine's lips parted, pressed together, parted again. Finally, she nodded; "Yes, Erik, I have decided."

I turned and put my back to the glass wall, my hand slipping free of hers. She watched me with brows furrowed, head cocked ever so slightly to the side. I pointed to the mantle; her eyes followed my motion, and then returned to me, to meet my gaze. "If you have made your choice, then make it in full," I said, gently but firmly.

She gave a nod, and moved to the fireplace. She stood there for a long moment, hesitating, as if frozen. She knew what this meant, and it frightened her, the finality of it all, I think. It took her many a minute, or so it seemed, before she reached up and tentatively turned the scorpion.

I heard a rumble, and knew that water was even now flooding the room beneath our feet, drowning out thousands of pounds of gun powder, ruining it forever, and making impossible the beautiful finale I had earlier planned.

Christine was looking over my shoulder expectantly, at the torture chamber. I saw her eyes begin to narrow, and then widen, and finally her lips began to part. "Erik… Erik, there is water!"

"Yes," I said slowly, stepping away from the wall. "It has destroyed our end, Christine, so that there never need be one."

"No, Erik… Water!" she cried again, pointing behind me. I turned, and saw the water that was flowing through the trap door and into the chamber. Nadir was panicking; Raoul seemed beyond understanding. My old friend flew to the wall, pounding against it, eyes peering desperately into the room, coming eerily close to finding my gaze.

"Erik! Help them!" my angel screamed, eyes flying between me and the chamber in desperation. "Why aren't you helping them!"

"We must put it all behind us," I intoned. "They will only interfere…"

"Erik!" she cried. "Please!"

They were floating now, and Nadir was trying desperately to find the original trapdoor, which had put them there in the first place. Christine cried for me again, searching around the place where she thought I had moved to release them. She was screaming my name, begging me, pleading with my mercy; I was hypnotized by Nadir and the Vicomte's bodies spinning around the room like ragdolls.

"Erik," she growled, "if you love me, you will release them!"

I tore my gaze away from them, settled it upon her. I took in the blood, the tears, the misery that constituted her every inch, and suddenly felt compelled to do nothing but please her, make up all the misery I had caused her. I went to her side, and my fingers effortlessly found the trigger. The wall pulled back mercilessly quickly, and water flooded the study.

At the last moment I pulled Christine aside, and we watched as the water rushed into the room and began to pool around our feet. Already it was beginning to recede, flowing back into the caverns far below and leaving us soaked and freezing. Nadir and Raoul both were splayed out on the floor, motionless; Christine rushed to Raoul, rolling him onto his back. "Erik, help them!" she cried, but I was in no danger of growing tired of that plea; I was not accustomed to being referred to as a savior, and I rather liked it. Both men were rousing from their stupor, but barely; Nadir was coughing hard enough to do damage to himself, while Raoul was moaning miserably.

I turned away from them, intent upon fetching the tools with which to do that which my beloved desired. There was a sudden movement, one I heard but did not see. Christine screamed, a sound that was cracked and horrible to observe; I could imagine what pain her throat was in. Nadir cried out as well, but that sound was almost covered up by a far louder, far more awful sound: the sound of a gunshot. That sound was so loud and fierce, it felt almost as if I had been physically struck. So real was that illusion that I truly lost my footing, falling to the parlor floor.

Strange, this pain blooming suddenly in my chest, this burning accompanied by a wetness spreading across my face, and my neck.

Strange, this complete blackness that had suddenly begun to wash over my vision, even as Christine's screams and sobs faded into the distance.