Paphos
An AU oneshot.
It was over. Pygmalion did not win his bride. He crafted her, shaped her, desired her, and in the end, he let her go. He was ready to die. The mob stormed his lair and beat him well. Bruises, red marks, slashes, burns—all marked him, and he did not care. He was barely conscious afterwards.
He thought he had died when he felt loving hands caressing his face, moving his head. A lovely, seraphic voice called his name. Then, two voices. He was moved to a bed, washed with a wet rag. His burns were rubbed with salve, something thick-feeling and medicinal. His wounds were cleaned.
Who was caring for him? Why would anyone? He expected to wake one day and find the person gone—a hallucination to calm him before death claimed him.
Instead, the person stayed. One night he saw by the glow of low candlelight, saw the beauty of her form in a white dress and her chestnut curls pinned back. She was bent over a bowl, wringing out a rag. She jumped when she noticed him looking at her.
"Christine…" His voice was weak, the barest of whispers.
"Erik, don't strain yourself! This is the first time you've opened your eyes to look at me in days."
How long? How long had he been asleep? "How…why?"
She moved closer to him and pressed that rag to his face, wiped away at a stinging cut. It was then that he gasped and tried to move his hand. The mask. Where was his mask? Christine was looking at his disgusting, corpse-like face without his mask. Oh, he realized with a pang of regret, she did so before when you forced her into the lair.
"How long? Three days since I found you. Why? Erik, I couldn't leave you to die. No one deserves that. Now, hold still."
He let her wash his wounds, play as his nurse. Instead of student and teacher, of husband and wife, they were nurse and patient. She helped him as best she could. Erik's heart broke to note how beautifully she was dressed. She was in a fine day dress, perhaps something the Vicomte gave her. She was kind with him when he coughed or hiccoughed. She was gentle, tender. Ever the giver.
Two weeks went by, and one day, as he was sitting down by his organ, he noticed it by the glow of the candles. The dress shone white, flawless. His chest hurt. Christine returned wearing the gown. She returned and meant to give it back.
The sound of her footsteps echoed on the walls. She had to trapeze around, for the mob ruined his lair: curtains torn, furniture destroyed and waterlogged, the organ keys smashed and pipes missing. Yet he did not look up as she approached.
"I understand, Christine, that you came to give it back." Pain throbs in his side—had he reopened a wound?
He felt her falter behind him. "...Erik, what…"
"The dress, Christine."
She said nothing. He turned and looked at her; confusion clouded her features.
"Erik," she began, taking faltering steps towards him. Her lovely, new, white gown shone off the waters of the lake. "I came back to…to help take care of you. And…I called off the wedding."
He began to tremble at those words. How would she take care of herself? Why had she done such a thing? He abruptly stood to his full height, causing her to take a step back. He ignored the pang in his heart at that thought.
"Why? Why, Christine? Why would you—?"
"I left him to come back for you. I heard of the mob. I had to make sure you were alright."
Pygmalion did have his bride. More than a year ago, she married him in a Paris cathedral. He remembered how she glowed like a seraph while walking down the aisle. She gave him a loving kiss to his unmasked face, caressing him. When they returned to the lair, he carried her to their bridal bed. Later, he built her a magnificent throne, all bejeweled and cushioned in white. It was placed with pride next to his. He tried to convince her to stay below ground, a Hades and Persephone in their own kingdom of music. When she was growing too pale, he relented and built them a house. A small, modest one, per Christine's desires.
He sat at their piano while Christine stood before a mirror. He glanced at his wife—his bride, his wife! -while working on the music. She was admiring her own reflection and studying her swollen belly.
"Erik?"
Christine's voice snapped him from his musings. He turned to look at her. The setting sun shone through the window and hit her magnificent curls, making them glow almost auburn. Her shadow was cast on the wall, showing her lithe hands resting on her stomach. "Christine?"
"Come here."
He glided towards her, this time slowing as he neared her. She put her hands on top of his own and wrapped his arms around her. His hands rested on her stomach, while she made circles on his hands with her thumbs. She leaned back into him, humming against him. He kissed her curls in contentment.
"The baby's moving much more. Can you feel it?"
He was too busy inhaling deep of her scent and kissing her to notice. But there it was: movement. A kicking just below his hand. Evidence of the life he and Christine made. Part of him singed in contentment, knowing he and Christine were bonded stronger—and he had a stronger tie to her—but another part worried. Worried that the child in her womb would be just like him. The baby would be cursed with his face.
He turned all his attention back to his Christine, to his masterpiece, his Galatea. She was everything perfect and wonderful. Christine leaned her head back onto his shoulder. For a moment, he pushed all dark thoughts aside. Christine wanted this, wanted him to see them as a family and he as part of that. So he allowed himself to be content. Happy. The baby stirred beneath his hand. He brought his hands up to further embrace. Christine smiled brighter. She received his kisses, and kissed him back.
"I am happy," Christine said. He briefly allowed himself to glance at their reflection. Christine embracing the baby and letting him hold them both. Only, he was the odd thing out. A white porcelain mask covering an obvious flaw. To her, however, it didn't matter. He tried to think about that.
The birth came not long after. As Christine was lying on their elaborate swan shaped bed with silk sheets surrounding her, he paced outside. His heart raced. He tried not to think about the cruelties of it all. As he paced in his calm little home, furnished like a palace and nearly wore out his fine Persian-style rug, his mind traveled to horrid depths of despair.
She could die, she's in pain…she'll die. She'll die and it will be your fault! She bore your child. You broke her. You cursed her to go through this agony. You murdered her, you killed her! You always destroy everything you touch!
He grunted out of anger and resisted the urge to pound his fist into the wall. In the myth, didn't Pygmalion and Galatea live happily with their child? Ah, but it hardly mattered. Pygmalion didn't almost force Galatea's hand in marriage. Pygmalion didn't get beaten by a mob and had to be nursed back to health. Pygmalion was not doomed with Death's face.
"Just breathe, Madame. You're doing wonderful."
Christine gave a moan of pain, of agony. His body burned, as though lightning shot through him and set him aflame. He was shaking, his muscles electrified. Every nerve ending and sinew was alive. He needed to be in there—curse the infernal tradition that men needed to wait. His wife was in pain, crying out and he needed to be there!
"Open the door!" He bellowed.
The midwife responded, "Monsieur, she is doing fine. Please, I will let you know if anything goes wrong."
That wasn't satisfying. No, his wife needed him, his Christine needed him. She needed him. He needed to hold her and soothe her with his voice and tender words of love. She needed him there with her.
And this infernal woman stood in his way. "Madame, you will—"
"Erik!" It was a distressed cry, from a pinched but more feminine voice. "Erik, please!" She held in a cry of pain—her throat was tight and she was holding back tears. "Darling…"
"Christine?" Erik's mind stopped, he hung on every syllable she would utter.
"Erik, I'm alright. This is normal. Please. Please, darling."
Was he hearing correctly? His Christine was begging him to stay out, stay away? Did she not want him? Did she…no, she said this was normal…but he couldn't lose her. Not now, not ever.
"Do you not want me, Christine?" he muttered. "Don't want me there?"
"Erik," her voice broke now, like she was sobbing. All because of stupid words he said— "I love you. The midwife will call you once I have the baby."
He nodded, defeated. He slumped to the floor and huddled like a child. Some father he would make.
His active mind worked again, remembering the panic he felt on hearing that she was pregnant, how he went numb as his mind cracked. He'd laughed, a mad giggle. Christine had surely lost her mind to want his child. Then, the horror, the terror of wondering if the baby would resemble him. Wondering if she would die, if the baby would die. The overwhelming realization of his own inadequacy. His own father died before he was born. He had no model for the child.
In preparation, he read every medical volume he could. Knowing Christine would be in pain did nothing to help him now. He wrote lullabies that helped soothe Christine, he designed the nursery with precious detail, he tried to support her and hide his panic. He needed her support now more than ever.
All of it was in vain. His wife moaned in agony as the midwife announced it was time. Christine's hand would be clenched, longing for his own to be there. She would be writhing, seething and there was nothing he could do to stop—oh, Christine. Please live. Please, please, please, survive this.
Minutes seemed to drag, time slowed and became eternity. When she screamed, he covered his ears. No no no no, she was hurt and it was all because of him—
A gasp of relief and then, a baby's cry pierced the air. "A girl," the midwife said.
A girl. He had a daughter. A girl who would need her mother's stories to charm her and her father's songs to soothe her. A girl who would have Christine's lovely brown curls and eyes and look every bit like her. A girl he would have to protect until his dying breath from every threat and monster because he was her father.
His body quivered. He was a father.
The midwife opened the door to find him huddled like that. Trying to regain his pride, he stood quickly and tried to look as imposing as he could.
"Monsieur, she had a daughter. She did well. I wrapped the babe and gave her to Madame."
Erik breathed a "thank you" and felt a twinge of remorse for almost using his Punjab on her (though he promised Christine no more murder). He strode past her into their room, where an oil lamp burned on Christine's nightstand. The swan bed stood tall and proud and elegant amidst the carnage. The smell of blood and childbirth lingered. The cherub statue on the end of their bed looked down on him.
Inside that bed, Christine was smiling, propped up on pillows, and holding a baby. Their baby. They had a daughter. Just like Pygmalion and his Galatea, they had their Paphos.
"Erik, come here. Come look at her! She's perfect!"
He came towards her with slow steps, ignoring the sweltering heat in the room. He looked down, heart pounding in his head until he noticed. The child was perfect. She was red and covered in some substance, but perfectly formed. She was small, but she was whole. She was Christine's, how could she not be?
But she was his as well. Erik had created moving symphonies and pieces of music. He had designed lavish homes with immaculate attention to detail. Never in his life did he think he could make something so perfect as that tiny babe in his wife's arms.
Christine was crying. She scooted over so he could sit by her, and it was only when he felt moisture behind his mask that he realized he was crying, too. He raised a gentle hand and wiped away her tears. "Christine," he whispered.
"Erik." She was choked up, flooded with emotion. She looked up at him with those gentle doe eyes. "Take off your mask, love. Let her see your face."
Fear struck him—what if the baby screamed? Yet his wife wanted a tender moment, so she would have it. With agonizing slowness lifted his hand to the mask and pulled it off. His face was now laid bare, and the child was free to reject him or love him.
The infant opened her eyes. She looked up at her parents in wonder, and made something of a cooing sound. She was musical already. Her eyes looked up and saw, focused, on his face. His malformed, twisted cheek, the death-pale skin, the pink near his skull, the exposed bone and pulsing veins.
Yet she did not scream.
A tear went down Erik's face. His daughter accepted him. At last, two people who loved him and accepted him. At last, he was free. Erik wrapped an arm around his wife and pulled her close. His hand connected with hers, and his other arm embraced his baby daughter. He was Pygmalion, and he had his Galatea and his Paphos.