Galatea

Down Once More and Final Lair. Also, an answer to the question of how Erik got Christine into the dress.

She was supposed to love him. Christine was supposed to consent to be his bride.

Now, he paced around while she changed. He'd dragged her down here. Don Juan was a sham. He brought her before the mannequin, the one he'd caressed and held and kissed, dreaming it was her. With none of the grace he once had, he gripped her bony wrist. "Wear it!" he barked. "Wear it and be my bride!"

When the sniveling girl refused, he growled and began to unfasten the dress from the doll. Terrified, she tried to back away, to race for the portcullis in the lake. Her banging on the fence in a frenzied panic alerted him. He raced towards her, carrying the dress and veil in his arms just as he once carried her.

"Wear this dress, Christine! I designed it for you! You!"

Her face was wet in the candlelight, and she squeezed her eyes shut. "No, no I won't!" She shook her head and sent her brown curls splaying everywhere. Some twisted like little snakes around the gate.

"What happened to Piangi?" she cried, and now her eyes were open. Full of terror. Fear of him. He was supposed to woo her and love her. Now she knew. He killed a man tonight. But that was not what stood in their way. No, she could never love the monster he was. His face, the cruel defect, was the problem.

"That does not matter!" Once again, he reached for her, and forced her into another part of his lair. She stumbled when he threw her back.

"Put on the dress!" He threw the expensive garment to the floor. He must have spent a tenth of his monthly salary designing it, spent hours designing it. With a wave of his hand, some candles lit and illumined her. She was crying, stage makeup getting ruined by those clear tears. She looked at the dress, her wedding dress, with a mixture of terror and horror.

"You gave me no choice!" he yelled, making her head snap up. "If you do not wear it willingly, I shall get you into it myself!"

Finally, she seemed to comprehend. Fire seemed to burn out of his eyes as she, with shaking, pale hands that looked as spindly as his own, picked up her gown. She sniffled as she turned, shaking where she stood.

This was not supposed to be this way. He was supposed to make a gown she was delighted to wear. He'd imagined them happy, him composing at his organ and finishing their Wedding Mass while she changed. She would come out, announce she was ready, with a loving smile on her face. He'd hand her the flowers, and they would leave the Lair. They'd return as happy newlyweds. Didn't Galatea love Pygmalion? She awakened to Pygmalion's pressing and kisses and looked at him with loving eyes. She said her name was Galatea. She breathed his name with love and kissed him in response to his question for a bride.

The story was a lie.

His ire could not be stopped. He left her in privacy and stormed over to his mannequin. The Christine he dreamed of, she represented how she should have responded: in earnest, with a desire to be pressed into his arms.

Her false face was a mockery. Her expression would be forever unchanging. She was a doll, lifeless, and useless. Fire shot through him. Why? Why wouldn't she love him? Why couldn't she be his? Why wouldn't she reciprocate his affection? This mirror bride was all an illusion, a joke. In fury, he threw the broken mirror down and away, out of his sight. He did not care that other shards of glass were scattered on the floor. He threw the mannequin onto the throne, uncaring of her response to fall forward and be picked up.

He stalked back to where he left her. She was dressed, and she looked so beautiful and lovely. She was how he pictured her if she did not look so terrified. Her eyes were not supposed to widen on seeing him. She was not supposed to look like he was bringing her to her death.

He held out the veil, offering it to her. Once again, she retreated from his touch. She backed away. He snarled and raced towards her. "You will put on the veil, Christine!"

"No, no!" she cried, racing around when he pursued. He caught her, then she pulled out of his touch. He pushed her away and she fell to her knees. This game had gone on for long enough. She tried to berate him, asking if he would take her against her will.

No, never. But his face prevented their love. He reached out to touch her. Just as everyone else had, she retreated. The mannequin, his dream of her, was all an illusion. He was a fool to think she would lean into his touch rather than pull away. His mother was the first to reject him, the poor woman who had hated him the moment he was born. He was given a mask, even at birth. No one could stand the sight of him.

Christine's lovely face changed, going from horror to pity. He growled at that. He did not need pity, did not want her pity. He turned her away from him, and put the veil in her curls. This was not how it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to be so overcome with joy, with gratitude, that she could not put the veil in herself. He would crown her with that veil. Not this, where she cringed at his touch. He spun her away from him and showed his full deformity to her. That monstrous countenance she was doomed to wake next to for the rest of her life.

"Erik, your face is not what is wrong."

She was not supposed to respond like that. Her face was unreadable. No! His dream, his fantasy, was fading. His Galatea was supposed to respond with freely-given love and affection. Fine, then. He would make his dream. He yanked the flowers out of the mannequin's hands and forced them into hers, ignoring how her fingers pushed against his own.

"Your soul is what is wrong. What was wrong are the horrid actions you took to win my love."

She struggled against him, holding that flower bouquet off to the side. Her face contorted to anger. No, Christine was never angry with him in his imaginings. But this Christine, this woman of flesh and blood, was not like the mannequin. He could not control her with mechanisms and force her response. She was free. She was human. She was real.

The Vicomte arrived, and Christine raced towards him. She wanted to caress that perfect face rather than his own beastly one. What a grand delight! He had a visitor to the wedding.

This guest called for Christine's freedom. Oh, how hilarious! That made Erik laugh! Christine was his now and he was never letting her go. She had no choice in the matter—she even told the Vicomte as much. But the poor boy still begged to see her. How impetuous he was, demanding to see Christine. Christine was not his.

He lifted the gate with a sneer and went to fetch his lasso. That is how one deals with intruders, with men whose sins deserve punishment. Isn't it a punishment after a crime to be hanged? Erik thought it fitting. Christine screamed, but this was right. Erik heard Giry telling the boy how to defend against his lasso, the same one he killed Piangi with. So now he would die.

Unless.

He wanted a real bride, not a captive one. Christine would be his willingly or the boy would die because of her choice. He brought her close to him, and went to caress her face. His movements were not gentle because of his rage, for she should have been receptive to his touch and not have spurned him. She had a choice to make: choose him, or the boy died. He strode to his organ, and struck the triumphal chord of Don Juan. Don Juan, who always conquered the women he loved.

He threw her to the ground and she responded. "I hate you! I once pitied you and now I hate you!"

Hate. Hate. His bride was never supposed to hate him. Where did he go wrong? Always he thought she loved him, would return his love. Galatea never hated Pygmalion. It was inconceivable, why couldn't she love him, why couldn't she—no. Regret meant nothing.

He reminded her of her choice, grabbed her and forced her to look at his hideous face. He brought his fingers up to hers, to caress those silken cheeks. He brought her closer to him so that she would at last fold into his arms. She turned away. He growled in anger.

"Angel, please have mercy!" she cried. No. He was only a man, a desperate one longing for a bride.

"There never was an angel…" she gasped, her tears impeding her words. "You lied to me. I believed you blindly!"

There she was, sobbing on her knees in front of him. His bride, clad in her white satin gown he made for her. Her veil surrounded her. She was the picture of brokenness. Meant to be his. She was making it difficult.

"You try my patience," he snarled, leaning close, towering over her. He breathed fire, his heart pounded as he took in the beautiful creature before him. He glanced down at the forsaken veil. Then, at her broken, tear-stained face. No, there was no pity. She had to decide. "Make your choice!"

He stood away from her in disgust. He heard her heave in sobs, and felt her brokenness. He felt her eyes, not burning with hatred or saddened. Rather, she looked at him with a gentle gaze, like a warm beam of sunlight. "Poor, unhappy Erik! What kind of life did you have? I'm so, so sorry. Erik, I understand you."

Suddenly, he felt her warm hand, the hand wearing the ring, on his shoulder. He turned to look at her, her face filled with that intention. Christine was before him looking like his bride. He never prepared—

Oh, Oh! She was kissing him, wrapping her warm arms around his skeletal, disgusting frame. Too much! Too much! He shook, he tensed, he feared. His own arms spread wide. He couldn't hold her, not when every part of him was falling off, falling apart. Every part of him was alive with electricity, he was alive and living and she—

With just as ferocious intensity, she broke that kiss and embraced him. He forgot how to breathe, her head was resting on his heart! His heart raced and threatened to jump right out of his chest. Christine, his angel, held him like he was worthy of her, like he belonged in her arms.

She pulled back, and looked at him with adoring eyes. Eyes that he only thought he'd see in his dreams. A face filled with tenderness and sympathy and caring. Not simply pity. Then, she leaned up again, pulled him down. The second kiss was more gentle, but his lips were on fire. Then, her impossibly soft and loving hands held his face. Her left hand reached up and, oh. She caressed his deformity. Like it, like he, was a priceless treasure.

He pushed her away. He needed to breathe. He was going to die. She gave him a pleading look. Please, don't hurt Raoul. He looked at her; she reached out shaking, uncertain hands. She grasped his fingers lightly, like he dreamed she would.

That did not matter. He did not deserve her. He never did.

He did not know what to feel as he grabbed a candle. He just knew what he had to do. He could no longer be the Beast. The monster. Christine would be free. She looked like a bride, his bride, but would never be his. He could not condemn her to his life. Not after the kindness she showed him.

He walked over to the Vicomte. Behind him, his angel whimpered, cried out, "no!" With a grunt, he burned the rope.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, racing to his side. The vicomte coughed and finally breathed. He pulled Christine close, and Erik felt too numb and dazed to feel the pang that would have shot through him at that sight. "Take her," he told the Vicomte. "Go, and forget me. Forget all of this!"

The mob called for his blood. He was a murderer, a monster. Blood was on his hands. Spurred to life, he shouted at the gate. Leave him. He instructed them both to take the boat, to keep his existence a secret.

No, why were they standing there? Raoul was holding Christine, who looked like she wanted to approach him, tell him something. No, she couldn't! She had no time! A mob was coming! "Go! Go and leave me!"

His screams sent the young couple running. At last, he was alone. He would always remain alone. In the echoes of his Lair, his tomb, the little monkey began to play its tune. A gift from the Shah. It was meant to be his wedding gift to Christine. Christine…Christine…

He fell to his knees, broken before the little toy. He sang the tune of masquerade. He, too, had to hide his face. The face which cursed him to a life of loneliness, a loneliness which led to his poor choices that cost him Christine. His only hope now was that the world would never find him. He covered the monkey's eyes

Movement. He turns, spins on his heel. It could be the mob—Christine. Christine stood there, vulnerable and like she wanted to collapse. She was crying. He hated to see her in pain. Pain he caused, and he wanted more than anything to take it away. She takes off his ring and holds out her hand.

This was the end. He didn't want it to be so. He wanted her, he loved her. He took her hand in his own. She needed to know that he loved her, that he wanted her to stay. "Christine, I love you," he crooned. Christine crumpled before him, trying to hold in tears. She reached for his hand, put hers underneath his. She put that ring into his hand, closed his fingers in with her own warm ones, and gently brought his hand to her lips. A kiss goodbye.

No, please, no, no, no, no. He whispered repeated "I love yous" and she turned and ran off with a sob. "I love you!" He grabbed her veil, the final piece meant to adorn her as she became his. He buried his face in it, inhaling deeply of her scent. Christine and M. le Vicomte sang their song to each other. Her voice echoed off the chambers, so sweet and innocent. He sobbed. Oh, Christine…Christine! What would he be without her? But she needed to leave him. He loved her too much to keep her here, no matter how much it pained him.

It was over. Pygmalion did not win his Galatea. He went to his throne, and covered himself with his cloak. The pain in his heart was a dull ache. The mob was coming closer. He just had to wait for death to come.

Next chapter will be getting into AU territory.