How long had passed? Did it matter? Hunched over the organ in this darkness, every day seemed to run into the next. A stale breeze floated through the cavern, and the flames flickered. "Damn!" Erik slammed his pen down onto the shelf next to him, running his hand through his hair. He was on edge, more so than usual. Taking a deep breath to regain the control he was so used to, he picked up the pen and tried to write. The music flowed through him as always, but the words were halting and useless.
"When the two of us are one, no longer think of others… No!" He swept his hand across the organ, sending paper, pen, and candelabra flying. Now engulfed by the darkness, he set his head in his hands. "I must finish this! All my well made plans!" The smell of smoke brought him to his senses, and he whipped around. Some papers in the corner were burning with the flame from the discarded candles. Standing quickly, he stomped out the flames, then knelt to examine the damage. A few small drawings, plans for the opera house, set designs, all relatively unimportant, but beneath them, the edges charred, were two portraits.
The first was of Christine in full costume as Elissa. She had done splendidly, and her voice had exceeded what she had demonstrated even with him. Her innocent beauty paired perfectly with the pastoral backdrop, and her voice, ah, her voice! What more exquisite pleasure was there than to listen to that angelic voice?
Carefully placing the new sketch on the shelf, he examined the second portrait. This one was older, and the flames had licked at the likeness rather than only the edges. It was of Cecily, in time long past. He had drawn it when she had first returned to him. She was young, but her eyes were still haunted by some unknown pain. No, not unknown. The wretchedness of her childhood mirrored his own. Yet it was he whose ugliness drove the world away. It was he who sat in this rotting dungeon while she flitted across the French seaside with that Russian prat. It was he who was tortured by every thought of her, yet she seemed to have nearly forgotten him!
His stomach tightened, and a deep rage came upon him. Roaring in anger, he threw the portrait into the flames of the fireplace. Watching it burn, he felt release in his heart. No more would she stand above others in his mind. No longer would she distract him from his love of Christine! Never again would he care more for her than for the other occupants of the opera house. She was dead to him. And he was quite sure at that moment that if the need arose, he could carry out his threats.
He returned to the organ, feeling words begin to flow with the music. "Past the point of no return the final threshold - the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!" His voice rose in hysteria, unaware that the burning portrait was rising, settling on the frame which hid his beloved Christine's wedding gown. "We've passed the point of no return . . ."