An emphatic thank you to Christine Elestor for her wonderful review! I absolutely adore reviews...
This chapter is dedicated to Megan- in honor of our quest for the sacred book, and her excellent wielding of the tape. Also in honor of chlorophytes and romantic clover. I love you, Megan! ; )
(You don't have to claim it if you don't like it, though!)
Years passed, and despite his steady belief that she would abandon him eventually, Christine only relied upon Erik more and more every day. She grew attuned to his presence; she could feel him in other places besides their little chapel. He often watched rehearsals, and they would discuss the current operas when they met. They talked together, without fail, every day in the little chapel. Everyone knew that little Christine Daae would go pray for her father in the dusty, forgotten corner of the opera house every evening. Christine had no real friends in the opera house, and many of the superstitious company claimed that the old chapel was haunted; for these reasons, the two were never disturbed.
Christine soon realized that Erik was extremely lonely and sad. He was also incredibly intelligent- he knew something about everything that they ever talked about. He had traveled widely, and often regaled her with stories of exotic foreign lands (although he always seemed saddened by these stories, so she eventually stopped asking about his past). Best of all was his voice. Erik could sing like the angel that she had first thought him to be. At first, Christine constantly tried to convince Erik to let her see him, but he always refused- and often, he ended their conversation right there, and she would have to wait till the next day to talk to him. After the first year, Christine had all but forgotten that her Erik even had a corporeal form. She enjoyed his company too much to ever risk it for anything. True, his personality was forceful, and his temper often frightening; but she could always hear the uncertainty and sadness in his voice, and so she stayed.
The first time that Christine sang for Erik, he was quiet for so long that she thought that he might have left. She was dubious when he told her that one day she would have all Paris at her feet, but then he promised to train her. Unable to pass up the opportunity to learn to sing like he did, she agreed. From that day on, their evening meetings were centered around voice lessons. As a result, she spent increasingly long amounts of time in the little chapel.
The room itself had changed much over the years. Christine kept it dusted and clean (but she never swept away spider webs). The rickety old pew had been polished, and she kept a soft pillow and a blanket stored underneath it. The altar had a new cloth over it, and every available surface was covered in candles, pilfered from the prop room. Christine loved candlelight. Her father had told her a story once, about a young maiden who dances forever in the flames of candles. She loved to watch the flame flicker, and imagined that sometimes she could see the faint form of the little dancer. The chapel had become her favorite room in the entire opera house.
And so it went; the relationship between Christine and Erik slowly, tentatively grew. Despite the strangeness of her companion, Christine had no better friend. Later, she would recall that things started to change one day when she was fourteen years old.
She had been drawn to the little cluster of ballerinas- all frothy white tutus and satin ribbons- by the tremulously compelling voice of Little Meg. She stood (if you could call it that- Meg was constantly in motion) in the center of the group, and was animatedly telling a story that made all the other members of the corps de ballet shriek with fear and delight. Christine crept as close as she dared to the unfamiliar group, trying to hear Meg's words.
Her story was, of course, about the Opera Ghost- him they call the Phantom of the Opera. She described him as terrifying, yet compelling. He could lure a unsuspecting ballet rat into his monstrous clutches with his voice and violin; Meg claimed that he played like an angel.
That was the phrase caused Christine to gasp. Meg gave her a glare for interrupting her tale, then ignored her and continued. Christine went through the rest of her rehearsal in a daze.
That evening, she confronted Erik.
"Erik?"
"Yes, Christine?"
She took a deep breath. "Why did you never tell me that you are the opera ghost?"
He was quiet for several moments. Finally, "I wished not to frighten you. I never wanted to frighten you."
She sighed. "Oh, Erik. You do not frighten me. I am just hurt that you never told me."
He did not answer, and Christine eventually left the chapel, blowing out the candles and leaving the lonely chapel in darkness.
For a few days, their conversations were awkward and halted. Erik was even more uncertain than before (except in the voice lessons, of course- there he was always commanding and sure), and Christine deeply regretted having said anything. The strangeness never really passed, and Erik began slowly distancing himself from Christine. Soon, they only met once or twice a week, then once a month. It was the last time that Erik came to her that Christine remembered most vividly. It happened when she was sixteen- a cold, rainy day in April.
Christine ran to the chapel, sobbing. She couldn't remember crying this hard since that day so many years ago, when she had just lost her father and was all alone. She needed to talk to Erik desperately, but he had been coming less and less frequently to the chapel. She still went every evening, because she had grown to love the little room. Very rarely did he speak to her there, but she had taken to bringing along books and musical scores, and eating her dinner in the peaceful solitude that she treasured. But tonight, it was important that she speak to him, the only friend that she had ever had.
She reached the familiar, ancient wooden doors and threw them open with all the strength that she had. She ran in, pulled them shut again, and cried out, "Erik!" He did not answer, but she refused to give up. She sobbed his name over and over until she heard his voice.
"Christine, what is the matter?"
the concern in his tone only made her cry harder. As soon as she could speak, she told him about how she had been on her way to her dormitory room when she had passed a group of other girls from the chorus. They laughed and pointed at her but, knowing that she was not popular among several of the members of the chorus- especially the friends of an ambitious soprano with her eye on prima staus- Christine did not think too heavily upon this. But then she passed another group, looking at her with sadness and pity. This worried her much more than the first group She walked a bit faster, and soon met with another sympathetic group. She broke into a run, desperate to reach her little corner of the dormitory. She burst into the room, and cried out when she saw her part of it.
The thin blanket that had only that morning been stretched neatly across the tiny cot was now flung onto the floor, covered in something that looked like the plaster used for props. Her pillow was torn allowing feathers to light upon every surface.Her drawers were upended, and the little frame that held the only photograph that she had of her father had been smashed. Upon seeing this last horror, Christine had rushed to the mess of mangled wood and broken glass and carefully pulled the photograph out- gladdened to find that it had only been torn a little on the edge. But she was still hurt and confused. She knew that Antoinette- the soprano- and her friends had disliked her, but what had prompted such an act of cruelty? She looked around, and there, underneath a dusting of feathers, was a small note, telling her to prepare for a minor solo role in the opera's new production, Aida.
By the time she finished relating this story to Erik, she was sobbing again. Erik's anger was palpable in the room. He swore to deal with Antoinette, but, hearing the hostility in his ethereal voice, Christine begged him not to do anything at all to the soprano. He had asked her what, then, he could do, and she responded, "Erik, there is nothing for me that you haven't already done. You have already given me everything that I could want."
But the instant she said it, Christine knew that it was a lie. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she bit her lip.
Erik sighed. "You lie, my angel. What is it? What can I do?"
Christine, out of habit, raised her eyes toward heaven. "I...I just wish..." she shook her head. "You will say no. You will be angry."
"No I won't, Christine. Just tell me, please."
"I...I just want to know that you're really here! I want to...to embrace you, and I want to be comforted. I have no one, Erik. I just want to feel you here with me." she dropped her eyes again. "That's all" she whispered, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
Erik was silent. Finally he said, sounding sadder than she'd ever heard him, " Christine, you know not what you ask. You have never seen me...you...you cannot understand. I cannot inflict myself upon you- it would be wrong...I-I cannot..." he seemed to be almost crying as well.
"Please!" she begged. "Just for a moment. What if-" she paused, then spoke carefully. "What if I promised to keep my eyes shut? What if I wore a blindfold, so that I could not see you even if I wished? Would you come to me then?"
"Christine..."
"Angel, I beg of you! I promise not to see you." She waited, praying for his assent. She hugged herself, desperate for another's kind touch.
"You will promise not to look? No matter how much you may wish to? You will wear a blindfold and...and keep your eyes shut? You won't see?" He sounded almost childlike.
"No, Erik. I will not look- I promise." Her heart pounding with anticipation, Christine pulled the satin sash from around her waist and tied it snugly over her eyes. The sash was black, and she could see nothing. She felt a slight draft, then Erik's voice floated to her from only a few feet away.
"I am here, Christine."
She stepped forward, but she heard a corresponding step away.
"Christine, you should not...you would not want to touch me."
"But Erik, that was the purpose! I want to feel that you are real. I want to" she blushed, "I want to be comforted."
She stepped forward again, and he didn't move, although she heard his sharp intake of breath. Another tentative step, then another...and she stood directly in front of him. Blindness heightened her other senses, and Christine could hear his breathing- erratic and short. She reached out her hand and felt rich, thick fabric. Her hand slid higher, until it reached his shoulder.
"You are very tall" she breathed, allowing her hand to follow his arm, down to his hand. She could feel how thin he was underneath the fabric of his sleeve. His hand was almost skeletal, with unnaturally long fingers. "Why, Erik! You're freezing!" she cried, gripping his fingers in an attempt to impart some of her warmth to him. He wrenched away his hand.
"I...I am always cold to the touch" he said. He sounded ashamed and near tears. Christine carefully reached for his hand again, and he did not pull away, though his whole body shook with slight tremors. She was overjoyed to finally know that he really was real- there had been moments when she believed herself insane, conversing with an imaginary 'Angel'. Wanting the comfort that she had been so long without, she guided him to the pew that she knew was in the middle of the room and, after some blind fumbling, seated him beside her. Carefully, so as not to startle him, she wrapped her hands around his torso and buried her head on his chest; finally dissolving into tears. She barely noticed that he also cried, his tears wetting the top of her head. He never returned her embrace, but neither did he pull away.
And so it was that Christine Daae fell asleep by the side of her angel. The next day, she awoke on the pew, covered in a blanket. The memory of her first contact with Erik was her most treasured for years; after that night, he stopped coming to her entirely. It would be years before they would meet again, this time in the darkness behind a mirror.
She eventually stopped going to the little chapel. The dust fell thickly over it, and her candles became frames for intricate spider webs. The room was forgotten by all but a ghost- who occasionally visited, sighing over the memory of a warm embrace.