Chapter 25.5: The Therapeutic Touch

-Erik POV:-

Erik stared at her, watching her loose ringlets sway in the wind. She stood in the corner of the balcony, resting against the metal corner while hugging herself tightly. He ignored his mind's ringing reminder that she admitted her love for that fop. Like a fool, he had thought she would confirm her refusal to his marriage proposal. But now he understood. She refused him because she didn't feel worthy to marry him, not because she didn't love him. He had held onto that ring as a reminder of the sweet taste of victory, which now grew sour on his tongue. Though normally, he would have exploded in a rage of anger, he felt the fires inside him subdue. His time with this angel was limited, something he had denied from the start. Instead of acting angrily, he studied every detail of her, to commit this perfect image to memory. Every day could be the last day they saw each other and he wanted to treasure every second of it.

"Will you please sit with me?"

He had refused her beforehand, enjoying watching the afternoon sun illuminate her before him. At the sweet flutter of her eyes, he felt himself draw near. He leaned against the rail, crossing his legs and placing his hands in his pockets. He refused to meet her gaze.

"I must apologize-"

"Don't." He muttered. They sat in silence, though Erik could sense her frequent glances and attempts to break it

.

"You know everything about me, don't you?"

Her tone was gentle, but he was confused by her odd question. "Not everything." he denied.

"Answer truthfully. Where was I born?"

The answer naturally leapt off his lips without hesitation. "Uppsala, Sweden on October 11th."

"What is my favourite colour?"

"Red, like roses."

"And my favourite food?"

"Sickly sweet desserts, preferably with an unnecessary amount of strawberry or chocolate."

Christine giggled. Erik couldn't help but twitch as her shoulder connected with his. "And my deepest desire?"

He shuddered at the playfulness of her tone. "To sing opera or to be surrounded by music." His voice was a breathy whisper, one just loud enough for them to hear. He glanced up at her, his shoulders relaxing when he saw her smile.

"See. You know everything about me."

"You were quite the chatter-box as a child."

"It always got me into trouble. Clearly I never learned. I am sorry if I hurt you earlier with my questions."

He looked back down to his feet, unable to process her genuine apology. "I think we have been hurting each other for too long now."

She nodded. "I agree. I never meant to pry, nor to make you uncomfortable. I will admit, it hurts me to know I could never answer those questions about you, especially since we have been friends for so long."

"Friends." He whispered. Such a foreign concept. She continued to ramble on.

"I feel like I know nothing about you. But I want to. I want to know your favourite food and what your dreams are. I want to know about your childhood, no matter how terrible it may be."

"Why?" He asked, his perplexed tone conveying his emotions.

"You're my friend. I...I care about you."

Who knew the power of her words. They were like spells, and he was their willing victim. Erik glared at the women next to him. She must have been a witch. The Christine he knew died a long time ago and was replaced by this sweet seductress. Her words hypnotised him into submission despite his years of resistance. Could he believe those dangerous words. Could she care about him?

"But I respect the importance of boundaries. I won't pry. From now on, let's start anew. I am not angry that you left, and I hope you are not angry that I abandoned music. Let's move forward."

Her statement was more of a plea. Nadir had reminded him often on the importance of forgiveness, an idea he did not entirely support. However, years of holding onto his anger had lead him further from his angel. Now she was here, just for a moment. Why would he push her away over something he had forgiven her years ago? They sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder and heads looking down at their shoes. Erik periodically glanced over at her, looking for any signs of deception. It was a natural response. People could not be trusted, regardless of how sweet their words may be. Yet her face was stoic, almost calm. He contemplated how to proceed. After a shuddering sigh, he stood and faced her, his hand extended.

"My name is Erik. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Christine beamed, grateful that he accepted her apology. She took his hand. "Christine Daae. A pleasure."

He clasped her hand, raising it up to his mask. He gently brushed her knuckles with his lips; the same lips that had captured her own only moments ago. He tried to ignore his body's need to take them again, especially when her mouth gaped open ever so slightly at their touch. "The pleasure is mine, mademoiselle Daae."

Her eyes flickered up to his own, staying on him as he returned to his spot next to her. He swallowed down all his trepidation before prying open his soul.

"I was born in Rouen, France. I don't know when, though I presume it was nearly 30 years ago, possibly 25. I ran away as a young boy. It was a dark period of my life. I was starving, alone, but I always had music. I heard it in the rain hitting the cobblestone streets or through the cracks of restaurants. It was my only comfort. Eventually, I joined a group of travelling gypsies; wanderers who enjoyed music like I did. For a while, I began to feel again, but their leader had taken a particular liking to me. He was a heinous villain. His methods were cruel, his greed overwhelming, and I was stuck in his grasp for many years. One day, I decided that I was done falling victim to his anger and I...I ran away.

Christine's arm hooked around his elbow. Her encouraging voice was soothing against his eardrum. "You were very brave. That must have been difficult."

"I had help. Madame Giry found me."

Christine gazed up at him. "Madame Giry?"

Erik nearly chuckled. "Oh yes. That pestering woman is somehow involved in nearly everything I do. She is inescapable."

"What happened?"

"We were performing in Paris at the time I attempted to escape. She came to our performance and witnessed my attempts to escape. Instead of turning me in, she brought me to the Opera house. I had been there ever since."

"She never told me of this."

"That is a relief. I had forced her to promise many years ago that she would never reveal my identity. You must understand, that after years with that madman, I feared they would find me if they caught wind of a young man hiding in a Paris Opera."

She was silent for a moment, thinking over his words. He dared a glance, studying the furrow of her brow.

"What did you perform?"

His heart tightened. His body grew rigid as he fought against his body's natural inclination to tell her everything she wanted to hear. This was something he would not share. No matter how dulcet her tune. She would never know what laid under his mask.

"That is something I do not wish to discuss."

She stumbled on her words, gripping onto his elbow a little tighter. His heart raced as she unintentionally snuggled closer. "Of course. I apologize. Please continue."

He swallowed, forcing his eyes to remain on his shoes and not on the curve of her body against his arm. "I've never had a favourite colour, though I have been told black seems fitting to my personality. After my time with the gypsies, I decided I never wanted to face the human world again. Black merely allowed me to hide in the shadows."

She didn't say anything, so he continued. "As for food, I am afraid I can barely taste anything. Food is merely a substance, a requirement to survive. I cannot think of a favourite."

He hesitated, unsure of how to answer her last question. She gazed up at him. "What is your deepest desire?"

"I...I don't know."

"It can be anything. A dream, a goal."

He looked down at the polish of his shoes. They reflected perfectly, his meticulous cleaning regime clearly evident in the acuity of the image before him. He saw the outline of his mask, only visible due to the white flickers of skin near his eyes and mouth. His yellow eyes, menacing like a tiger, gleamed before him. But they naturally trailed to the side, looking at the brown curls that rested against his shoulder. Her smooth skin, a naturally glowing cream. Her rosy lips were curled up slightly as she held his elbow and leaned on his shoulder.

Why were they like this? They could yell and scream, attack each other with words and accusations, but they always ended up like this. In the piano room, when she cried for his forgiveness, they ended on the floor, enveloped in each other's arms. When he berated her in the dungeon, he felt the uncontrollable need to pull her into him, to kiss her soft lips. Now, without even trying, they were here. Touching, together, warm. This was his dream, to know this unfamiliar comfort.

"You are my dream." He whispered, switching to Persian. He watched her head turn slightly to face him though it remained touching his shoulder.

"What did you say?"

He leaned his porcelain cheek on the crown of her head, enjoying the tickle of her hairs on his neck. "If I tell you my dream, it won't come true."

She scoffed. "Do you really believe that?"

"Absolutely. It is the foundation of magic." With the flick of his wrist, a golden coin appeared in between his fingers. Her head raised as she gazed in wonder at the coin.

"Is that...a franc?"

He smiled, revealing in the amazement of her eyes. "It is. I was wondering if I could exchange it for your two Persian darics?"

"I don't have any Persian darics."

His fingers gently brushed her cheek, reaching for her ear. He nearly hissed at the softness of her rosy cheeks under his finger tips. But the pain quickly dissolved as a bright smile painted her face when he pulled two darics from her ear. She gasped in delight.

"How did you do that?" She laughed, feeling her ear.

"Magic." He chuckled.

Her smile persisted as she leaned into him jokingly. "A composer, architect, and magician. Is there anything you cannot do?"

I can't admit how much I… "As a member of the Shah's court, it is my duty to be anything the Shah needs. My talents must just be endless."

She snickered. "How humble." Her smile slowly vanished. "A magician, composer, architect...an Angel of Death."

He didn't respond, placing the coins in his pocket. He expected her to recoil from him, but still she remain at his side. He knew where his conversation was going. Instead of wasting time creating some excuse, he tried to commit the scent of her hair to his memory.

"Why do they call you that?" She eventually asked.

"The Angel of Death?"

She nodded.

"It is just a name to instill fear in the Shah's enemies. There are surprisingly few warriors who wish to battle someone called the Angel of Death."

"How shocking." Christine murmured playfully. "Are you a warrior?"

"You could say so."

"I was told that… that you were an assassin?"

His eyebrow raised under his mask. How much about him did she know? "Who told you this?"

She ignored his question. Clearly she didn't trust him enough to answer. He glanced down at his shoes to see her expression. Her lips were in a straight line, her face clearly tense. Her mouth opened hesitantly. "Is it true?"

He sighed. "I am."

He watched her body flinch, her eyes squinting shut. Her head lifted and his followed suit. Her face, now mere inches from his own, gazed up in wonder. But behind those gorgeous eyes was a gleam of fear. "Why? Why are you an assassin?"

It was like a child asking why there was hatred in the world. An answer too complex to divulge in, but an answer that had to be given regardless. His fingers naturally came to her cheek, tracing the defined line of her jaw. "It seems I have an uncanny skill."

"You have a skill for music." She retorted, her tone hardening. Her hand pointed to the construction sight at the other side of the palace. "You have a skill for architecture. Why would resort to taking the lives of others?"

"It is a long story, Christine." He hushed, trying to silence her. This perfect moment couldn't be ruined by the truth. A truth too brutal to speak aloud. But she stood, ripping away the warmth of her body from his side. The iciness of her abandonment chilled his bones. She stood boldly before him.

"But you said-"

"Why do you care?" He snapped. The softness of the light around them changed to something more sinister. She wanted him to be something he wasn't. Why was she asking for the truth if she wasn't ready to hear it? "I have told you more than you need to know. I told you about my birth, about my life before the opera. I told you why I left and how I ended up here. What more do you need to know?"

"I just don't understand-"

"Don't understand what? How blatant do I need to be!"

"I don't understand why you think so lowly of yourself. You're not monstrous."

He cackled, pushing off the rail to stand. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so-"

"Then ask me how many people I've killed."

Her eyes widened, but Erik knew he had struck a nerve. As much as he hated the fear in her eyes, it would be a lie to say he didn't enjoy dominating their conversation.

"Wh-what?"

Her towered over her. "When I came to Persia, I worked as a detective under Nadir. But I am afraid my skill set is quite...lethal. I joined the Shah's court as a magician at first, but this spiraled into something more sinister."

"What do you mean?"

"The Shah enjoys death. He enjoys watching the light fade from people's eyes. He enjoys watching the sliver of hope that they would survive crumble before him. And I, a master illusionist and entertainer, made all his fantasies delectably prominent. Hence the Angel of Death was born."

He watched her jaw loosen, her face grow pale. "You kill people...for his enjoyment."

Erik couldn't help himself. A part of him wanted this to stop, for him to run away from the balcony and never see her again. But never had he told anyone about the monsters of his past.

She wanted the truth, so she would get it.

"Oh, yes. Isn't that just monstrous. Not only that, but I kill his enemies, torture them for information and for sport, then give them the sweet comfort of death in the most excruciatingly painful way I can. You don't think I am monstrous, Christine? Clearly you are blind!"

His voice rose angrily. She shrunk before him as he sauntered forward, causing her to stumble backwards. "You want to know the worst part? I enjoy it. Yes, I do. For the first time in my life, I have power. I'm not trapped in a cage, put on for display, nor am I chained below an opera house. I don't have to hide who I am anymore. Here I can breathe the morning air, compose and build whatever I choose and no one will stop me. It doesn't matter if I am numb to the world I can finally feel the sun on my face! I enjoy the crack of a whip on anyone else's skin but my own. Who cares if their screams haunt me. Who cares if I know this is wrong if I can finally be alive! This power is eating away the little humanity I have left but at least I won't die alone in the darkness of a cell. I may never fulfill my dreams, my deepest desires, but at least I won't burn in hell on earth before falling to its fires after my death. As much as I hate it, I cannot deny that I enjoy it. The people that would have hated me if they saw me finally bow down to me! To a monster! I'm a monster, Christine, and it is tearing me apart."

He barely noticed how his voice cracked at the end of his confession. Her once terrified eyes had softened to reflect sorrow. He would have continued to ramble if her hand had not covered his mouth. His reaction was instantaneous, he gripped her hips and pulled her forward for another embrace. His shaking form trembled above her.

You are a monster. You are a freak.

"You don't have to do this." She cried.

He gently pulled her fingers from his lips. "I cannot escape what I've done."

You murderer! You disgusting murderer!

"You are not a monster. I am so sorry."

"I don't want your pity." he growled.

"You have my sympathy. Erik. This isn't your fault."

You're the devil's child

She cares about you.

You monster!

You're not a monster.

This time, it was her arms that wrapped around him first. She clung around his neck, but Erik could not bear to reciprocate her embrace. He stood, his hands in tight fists at his side as the voices in his head argued and screamed.

"Turn your face away from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light." Christine sang in his ear. His words, her voice. His soul, her heart. It broke the little resolve he had left and he wrapped his arms around her, enjoying the feel of their bodies molding together into one. Her voice silenced his hatred and soothed his flaming anger.

Together, their soft voices rang above the palace. "And listen to the music of the night."

Silence. Beautiful, whole, complete silence.

"Will you rehearse with me? Will you sing with me and forget about all this violence?" She whispered in his ear. He slowly stepped away, his fingers trailing down the sides of her arms until he clasped her hands.

"I'd do anything for you."

-Darius POV:-

"If you jerk like this, your shoes will not fit."

"If you keep stabbing my foot with that needle, I won't have a foot left!" Meg hissed. Darius glared up at the blonde beauty. Here he was, sitting in the disgusting dungeon, making shoes out of the kindness of his heart. Instead of praise, all he received were sharp complaints and testing glares.

He looked back at Nadir, who stood with him in the women's cage near where the rest of the older women had conjugated. Nadir shrugged. Darius rolled his eyes. His mentor was of no help, as usual. Quickly he finished the last shoe-sorry-slipper.

"Darius." The tall french woman who had gained his master's undivided attention stated. "Although my students may not appear to be grateful, we are thankful for your hard work. Aren't we, ladies?"

Sorelli and Meg rolled their eyes, mumbling their appreciation. Darius snickered. Well, it was something.

"Of course." Darius replied. "It was a pleasure."

He gathered up his supplies, pausing as he looked into his bag. He scanned around the floor, near the rock he sat on, even in the hall.

"Is something the matter?" Nadir asked.

"No." Darius murmured. "I thought I brought... oh never mind. Nadir, let's leave these good 'ladies' shall we?"

He enjoyed the fiery expressions of the two ballerinas as he made his turn to leave. Nadir excused himself, locking the door behind him. Darius adjusted his hand on the bag. It had felt heavier earlier. Why did it feel so light now?

As they left the dungeon, he couldn't help but evaluate all that was in his bag. There was the hammer, the thread, leather, needle, and file. All utensils he had quickly thrown in his bag before running to the dungeon.

But a part of him swore he brought his large pliers...didn't he?

He brushed some hair from his eyes. They were probably sitting on his worktable. He had been quite absent minded lately.

"Come. We must hurry."

Darius raised an eyebrow to his mentor. "Why? Don't we have the afternoon off?"

"I'm not sure." He sighed. "I received word from the Shah's personal guards today. We must speak with the Angel of Death immediately."

Darius paused. "Is he..."

"I am afraid he will be...much sooner than we anticipated."

Here is the rest of that chapter! See you guys on Sunday!

Phantomgirl24: They are cleaning up the cobwebs. Do you feel like they have done so pretty well? I think this conversation was incredibly important, though there are still some unanswered questions. BUT if you still feel confused, let me know because I am sure others do as well. Thank you for your review!

YinuoTong: You're hilarious. It is sad to see them go through pain but they clearly find peace with each other. More and more fluff to come! Thanks!

Lucyole: Christine definitely loves Raoul like a friend but messed up on her communication *sighes and rolls eyes*. But actions speak louder than words. I am glad you like the ending of my chapters! I am all about those cliff hangers. Thank you!