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*-* Erik & Christine XIV - The Story of the Mask
After their singing session, in the theatre, where they'd rehearsed Lakmé's opening aria as her audition piece, she'd been once again extraordinary. It would fit the young woman perfectly, and show her skill, her clarity and her control. They retreated to the living room, and its thousand candles and books.
She glimpsed the mask sitting on the table, near the Dracula book, where it hadn't moved from two days ago.
"Do you mind if I try your mask?"
"It will not fit you, but please do as you wish."
She took it into her hands, marveling at the soft, skin-like texture. It was still heavy, and warm.
Against her cheek, as she put it, her eyes only slits in the mask, despite how well it could have fitted her face, she could barely see. Her nose was encased in it, and she could hardly breathe. And her mouth, thankfully, was free of it. It was so uncomfortable.
"Did you wear it all the time?"
"Every hour of every day."
"Since you were born?"
"Nearly so. I have very few memories of my childhood. Most of them are not pleasant. My mother gave me my first mask. Along the years, I switched to better, more appropriate materials. I needed to sing, you see. She never liked me. Never embraced me. Never…"
Despite the years, she could hear the pain in his voice.
"I left home very early, and in that time, children were not given time to play too much. I ran away at 7. Found a traveling fair. They were admiring my voice, my compositions. Delighted in showing my face as the Angel of death, a monstrous head, with an angelic voice. The contrast brought many patrons to our group, and I was tolerated for that."
The way he spoke of it, so detached, as though it was natural to run away. The mix of pain and blandness was sickening.
"I traveled for many years, went to Persia, as I told you. But that trip ended badly, and I was forced to return to Paris, to hide. Along the way, I found a vampire. He didn't want to attract attention, but I convinced him to turn me. I helped build the Garnier, and that's where I spent the next five years. And where I met her."
Her.
It meant everything.
"I loved her. She had the most exquisite voice, but rough from no training. I said I would help her, hidden as a bodiless voice. Her Angel of music."
She was listening intently. She couldn't believe how similarly he'd tried to meet with her, help her, and train her. She felt uneasy. And yet, this time around, she'd pursued him. He'd never hid from her. Always been careful to show himself. And wanting nothing to do with her, at first, and how she understood, now, why he'd been so evasive and reluctant. She'd been a living, real, singing reminder of who he'd lost.
"For three months, we worked together. She had her debut, was the star of all of Paris. And she met an old childhood friend."
Three months, and what an impact it had had on him. The pain was back into his voice. She could see where this was going, but she kept listening, squeezing his hand between hers. She had wanted to know, and so she would, despite how unpleasant it might be for them both.
"He fell back in love with her. Perhaps he'd never stopped. Perhaps she hadn't stopped loving him either. I became jealous. I threatened them both. The whole of the Opera. I was so in love, so blinded by my feelings, I lost control."
"What do you mean, lost control?"
"I killed once that year. It never happened again, but it was too much for her. She was afraid of me, of my temper. Didn't want anything to do with me. I tried to lure her back to me, but her fool of a lover went to retrieve her, helped by a friend of mine, a Persian officer from that time we worked on the Shah's palace. I… I did everything wrong. But she understood. She managed to free herself and her lover, and my friend I had so unjustly treated."
"How?"
"She kissed me. She showed me she loved me, in her own way. And I knew, then, I had to let her go."
She was crying.
Despite the years, he was still that little boy who had never known a mother's love or comfort. Never known love, either, unless it was painful. Or brutal.
And it broke her heart.
"She went away, and I promised I would never seek her out again. I never saw her after that."
"Never?"
"Never."
Silence.
"She married her lover, and had a few children. She never sang at the opera again. Traumatized, of course. I know that now. One day, I learnt she had died."
She squeezed his hand with all the strength she could muster. Of course, there would be no happy ending to that story.
"Every year, since, I have placed flowers on her grave."
"Do you still miss her?"
"Very much. She showed me so much. She made me a different man. But thanks to you, Christine, things are different now."
He spoke of that, but his eyes seemed uncertain. As were hers, she was sure.
"I understand if you do not wish to see me again, after all I've told you. I do not deserve any more than what you have given me already. I would live through all this pain again, a thousand times, if it meant getting to know you, to hear you, to kiss you. But if this is goodbye, know that I will always love you."
She cried some more, and brought his head down to hers, to kiss him. To make him feel that this was not mere compassion, not gentle acceptance only.
She loved him, too.
And one day, she would speak the words back to him.
For now, her kiss, her embrace would have to suffice.
She wouldn't leave.
Not now.
Not ever.
He'd told her everything. Every card was hers now, and still she'd chosen to kiss him. To show him it didn't matter, he was still cared for. No matter what, he believed her. Had opened his heart to her.
They talked some more, that day.
"Do you mind if I stay here tonight?"
"Of course not."
She didn't want to go back.
Every kiss felt like a spell woven between them, every embrace, every word spoken brought them closer together.
And now, leaving his side almost felt too hard.
"Would you come into bed with me? Sing me to sleep, and then leave if you want?"
He was startled. But he couldn't deny the attraction brewing between them, growing steadily stronger each time their eyes met. Each time he smelled her, touched her, kissed her.
"I would sing the whole night for you, if you want."
"Just staying will be perfect."
She went through her night routine, brushed her teeth, her hair, put on her nightgown, and settled under the warm covers.
He was still in his silken suit.
"Don't you have something a bit more relaxed to put on while you're home?"
"Mmm. Maybe? Please give me a minute."
He went down the stairs, and through the open door, she heard him retreat to his bedroom. Despite their talks, he had still never invited her inside.
And then he came back, wearing a beautiful silken coat, the material soft and light, depicting Persians symbols and embroidered with golden threads and dragons from the east.
"Is that lounging?"
"I only have a shirt underneath."
Her cheeks went aflame.
"And underpants!" he added to her delight, seemingly confused at her reaction.
"Come here, and hold me, please, now you're appropriately dressed."
"Your wish is my command."
And he joined her, as she settled her head on his chest, her warmth so wonderful, her weight and the covers so delightful an addition. The bed was wonderfully soft, and he might drift off as well, if he didn't take care to stay awake.
She sighed, loving the feel of his arms around her, still covered, but with a lot less clothing than usual. One day, soon, she'd feel his naked skin over hers.
But now, she just breathed, deeply, his sweet masculine scent drifting her to sleep, while he caressed her hair and sang soft melodies into her ears.
He could get used to that, he realized with growing fondness. Having her at his home, singing together, talking together, and the feeling of her falling asleep in his arms.
Most nights he waited a bit before leaving her and going out to feed, but some nights he stayed longer.
He'd never stayed the whole night, though.
Sometimes her proximity proved too much for him to bear.
And of course, the shadow of the ghosts haunting him was never fully gone. Despite the years, he couldn't forget it had started like this, in a way, with his old Angel. They would talk and sing and she would stay in his home, too.
Sometimes, he could hardly shake the fears she would leave, once she was back in Paris, and an acclaimed Diva. She would have what she wanted, be who she'd wanted to be, and have no need for an old vampire with attachment issues.
He'd seen it happen, in a way. Not that he hadn't brought it upon himself. That terrified him. To think he would somehow, someday, do something, say something to frighten her and push her away from him.
He wouldn't bear it.
Not now, that he'd built his life back, all around her.
But whenever he tried to voice his fears, she smiled at him, and he forgot. Put it all away. Later, he thought. Not now, while she looked at him like he contained the whole wide world and even more so.
She settled on spending a night out of two in his home. She kept to her bedroom, and was always awakened by a gentle lullaby. Sometimes, she felt him leave, and tightened her hold over him. Still, each morning, he was gone.
August came and went, and so September started, the day of the auditions looming closer.
They hadn't yet talked much about what it would entail, each taking in the wonderful days they were spending together and not the inevitable ending.
Of course, it would only be different, not in bad way.
They could still spend time together. But if she succeeded, and they had both reasonable reasons to believe she would, things would change. With rehearsals and tech week and the actual performances, their ideal days spent together would change.
In his dreams, or earlier times, he could have swept her away and let her perform for him alone, keeping her light to enjoy all on his own. But these days were long past, and he would learn to share.
He'd buy a box at the theatre she'd perform in if it meant he could be there each and every night, to share in her triumph.
But thinking about this would not help, not yet. There was a time for everything.
They were enjoying an afternoon on their sofa, side by side, her head in his lap, as she drew circles on his hand, and he read a book out loud to her, his other hand caressing her hair.
The most comfortable pillow she could ever ask for.
He never felt too cold anymore.
"It is silent, your heart," he said, finally.
"What do you mean?"
"You no longer flinch from seeing me. I haven't heard anything from your heart. Before, I could still see your reaction, hear it, and feel it, even though you hid it. But now, nothing. Or…"
"Or what?"
"You seem happy. Missed heartbeat of joy, not disgust. Not fear."
"Indeed, my love. Erik."
She hadn't noticed it, before, but it was true. Now, she saw the face fully, but she had too much joy in her heart, too much love, to be anything but happy and aching with desire to see his face.
She brought her hand to his cheek, as he settled his on top of her fingers.
"Your cheek is so soft. The light in your eyes, reflecting so much. Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful your irises are? Golden and bright, like molten gold, but softer. And the sharp angles, like the statues of old, the Roman and Greek gods. If I were a painter, or a sculptor, your face would be such an inspiration. So many ways to catch the light, so many angles, so many colors and textures. You are unique, it's true. But it is just as you are. Extraordinary. One of a kind."
She spoke true words, words she felt from the bottom of her heart, and he knew it. The scent of truth clung to her, as potent as her love. It was almost too strong for him to bear.
So lovely.
He put the book aside, and she got up to kiss him, as he put her flush against him.
One hundred, seventy-two kisses.