Pygmalion

The creation of the mirror bride. Note: Inspired by Pygmalion by NPennyWorth, and also Prying Pandora's YouTube video on the Mirror Bride and her breakdown on Phantom mythos.

Inspiration came not long after he met her.

Erik has always considered himself well-read. He's read the works of Ovid, and the Greek myths that inspired them. He's known the world through books and stories, and through his music. Through observation, not participation. Pygmalion struck him. A man disgusted with the world, with womankind, he fashioned a wife out of ivory, kissed her, carried her, laid her in bed, loved her. In the end, his lover's obsession was rewarded. The statue, his Galatea, came to life and returned his devotion. She was flattered by his love when she was inanimate and now came to love him back with just as much heart.

He met her when she cried over her father, weeping that the Angel had not come yet. That golden voice called to him from the shadows. He found a place to hide and watched her through a secret passage in the wall. Who was this girl? She was loveliness incarnate, rivaling Venus in her beauty. She was a painted angel encased in flesh. Long chestnut curls illuminated with the oil lamp in this spare dressing room. A white gown on a slender, pale frame. Modest and graceful in every movement, the way that years of ballet training can give.

He soothed her with words of tender promises. When he said her name, Christine, his heart skipped a beat and raced faster. His hands perspired. Talking to her left him breathless. He promised he was her Angel, and that he would teach her. She would be the best singer in all of Paris. She would give life to his music.

He would stalk on the catwalks, would watch her at dance practice. He crafted her a new, two-way mirror that let him see her in the dressing room. During their lessons, he noted her measurements. Yes, she needed a wedding gown. Christine Daae would become his bride. His ring would fit perfectly on her finger. She would love him. She would save him.

He retrieved the needed materials (he convinced himself he needed to be honest for this venture and buy them). The molding for her body had to match her perfectly. Her height and build matching that dancer's grace. All the way up, he molded on a metal frame and built around it. He crafted that swan-like neck, that jaw, that beautiful and perfect face. He imagined touching her warm, living flesh. The materials he worked with were a mockery of that. But oh, how he dreamed. She would hum at his touch, not repulsed but invited. She would lean her head on his shoulder, clasp him tight, giggle a little and kiss his ear, his Christine…

Oh. He was working on a mannequin.

He finished her features and then made a replica of her pretty curls, ones that cascaded down her back. He stepped back and admired his work. Christine looked back at him with a lifeless stare. The angel made of false materials.

Pain struck him in the chest. Now, he needed to design the gown itself.

He was a man of wealth, after all. The opera house was his and his salary reflected that. His bride would need the most exquisite of gowns, a dress fit for a queen. His Persephone, and together they would rule his kingdom of music. Once she consented to be his, he would place another throne where the unfinished mannequin now stood.

He watched even closer during their lessons. Her measurements were easy to deduce. The gown would have buttons down the front, allowing her ease of putting on. Beading would be down the front and give way to a lovely, ruffled satin skirt. At the back, a large bow and long train, trailing behind her as she glided. Every ruche of fabric mattered, every bead. In between working on his Don Juan, he designed her gown. For she would be charmed by the music and agree to marry him, flattered. "Erik!" she would say. "This is beautiful! Your music is beautiful! Yes, I shall marry you!"

He barely slept, working on his design in the night, wondering how it would feel on her skin. When the gown was complete, he designed her long veil with the flowers in it (don't all women like flowers?). With utmost tenderness, he took his mannequin and dressed her. "I'll help you get into this, love," he crooned. "I designed it for you, you know. Hours I looked at you, watching closely to make sure it would fit—you do like it, don't you?"

"Of course, of course…" he whispered. Once the dress was on her, his breath hitched. Ah, she was so beautiful. With trembling hands he takes the flowered veil and pushes it into her hair. Christine would smile at wearing this, but she would be frozen in shock over his amount of care. Therefore, he would have to put that veil in her hair and fluff it for her. Then he put that bouquet of white flowers into her closed hands.

He spun her around. Oh, Christine. His Christine. His muse, his angel, his bride. Never had he looked at something so lovely. This was how Pygmalion looked at his Galatea. Like the sculptor, he touched his creation with utmost care. His fingers caressed the jaw. He wanted to tilt her face up and—

He couldn't. He furrowed his brow. The mannequin was stiff and hard, unyielding under his touch. No! What was wrong with him? The real Christine would bend up to reach him, and he would move towards her for a kiss. She would be movable.

He put her behind the mirror, but not a whole one. A broken one with shattered glass jutting out. No barriers would be between them one day. He needed her to move, to be responsive to his touch. He's heard of in books before, how grooms scooped up their brides in their arms and carried them to the marriage bed. And the real Christine would one day embrace him as he yearned to be. Something his own mother would not even do.

He carefully took off the gown and fixed the hips, then the arms. She would move out at feeling him come near. Next, he worked at her knees, for they would bend when he carried her. Just like hers would.

When she was finished, he tested it, opening his arms enough for her to sense the touch. Immediately, Christine lunged forward for him to catch. With ease, he took her into his arms. She was light, easy to move, and he felt at last that she fit into his arms.

He carried her to his bed. It was coffin shaped, but pillows would hide that. He looked down on her and brushed a strand from her eyes, kissed her hard face. Oh, how much he wanted her to be flesh, to be real! "Sleep, my Christine," he whispered.

Soon enough, he would bring her down. Don Juan was not completed yet, but it will be. Don Juan needed an Aminta, and her voice was Christine's. She was to give his music breath and life, infuse her heavenly love into this carnality. Redeem it, redeem him. He continues pounding away on his organ, making changes to his music all through the night. Nearby, his loving bride slept peacefully.

Christine was entranced. Her doe eyes fixated on him, hanging on every word and promise of love he croons to her. You will know the music I write, Christine. She floated towards him and stopped in front of that broken mirror. He'd arranged the sheet perfectly for the reveal of his bride. "For you!" he said. He threw the sheet away and watched the object of his desires.

Christine stared with wide eyes. She was speechless, hesitant. He coaxed her forward. Go on. In his mind, he'd imagined a hundred different fantasies. She was overjoyed, in awe, stunned. But in each one she would eventually smile, tell him she loved it, she was flattered, and yes, she would wear it—-

The real Christine, his living bride, walked towards her replica with faltering steps. She reached out a timid hand, her beautiful hand that he longed to hold in his own and touched her image.

She triggered the mechanism. The bride almost collapsed to the floor from the hinges, and Christine wobbled. No! In a second, he raced towards her, and she fell against him. He took her unconscious body into his arms. Time slowed and stopped. His heart raced again, for a living, breathing woman of flesh was here, in his arms. She was not dead. Her face was frozen in shock, but it didn't matter.

As he practiced, he carried her to bed. He laid her on all those pillows, and on those satin sheets. His future bride deserved only the best. He would woo her accordingly. Oh, curse him! Why didn't he think of a proper duvet? His cloak served an impromptu one. Christine barely shifted when he covered her, relaxing into sleep.

He barely reached out to touch her silken hair, so perfect and lovely. Those curls framed her face and fanned out around her. Oh, how exquisite she was, his angel.

Tomorrow, when she woke, she would get a better look at the dress. She would tell him it was beautiful, tell him how thoughtful he was. She would cry a little, he would ask what was wrong. She would tell him she has never had someone think of her so much before. He would tell her he's dreamed of her; he loves her, he worships her. He'd drop to one knee, kiss the hem of her gown in modesty, and ask her to be his.

She would say 'yes.' Of course, she would. Just as Galatea wed her eager Pygmalion. His mirror bride brought to life.