The Mask and Mirror
You only see what your eyes want to see
How can life be what you want it to be
You're frozen
When your heart's not open
You're so consumed with how much you get
You waste your time with hate and regret
You're broken
When your heart's not open
Mmm, if I could melt your heart
Mmm, we'd never be apart
(Madonna, Frozen)
Chapter 6
She dreamed of the fire again. Of ash and smoke and falling rafters. Her lungs seared with pain as she was dragged roughly along endless dark passageways (come along my dear, you have a wedding to attend), the terrible stench of burning flesh assailing her senses. Brimstone and embers danced behind her closed lids and acrid smoke stung her eyes when she awoke, her face pressed into the pillow that was damp with fevered tears.
For several moments, Christine remained still, willing her breathing to slow. It had been a long time since she had dreamt of that night. The horror of it was too raw to dwell on even now. It had been a shattering revelation that had torn the final remnants of her childhood from her forever. To realise that someone she had trusted so implicitly, so blindly could turn so savagely on her. Even before that fatal unmasking, she had clung to the belief in Erik's decency and humanity with fierce conviction. And it had all been for nothing. So vivid still, his bruising, hurting grip on her bare shoulders, shaking her furiously; angel turned demon.
And now she was here again, once more wholly in his power. Thus far Erik had been deferential, entreating, even, but that beast ever lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to be unleashed once more. And she was trapped with no hope of rescue. No one even knew she was here. She should have been frightened, passionate, enraged. Instead, she only felt terribly weary.
Wrapping her light gown tighter around herself, Christine drew back the heavy curtains and glanced tentatively out, but Erik was nowhere to be seen. Although it was barely possible to tell so far beneath the earth, some instinct older than the Parisian civilisation she had grown accustomed to told her it was morning. Cautiously, she made her way through the dimly-lit abode, becoming more confused by the moment. After everything he had said to her last night, surely he would not have left her? She could not decide how she felt about that thought, so pushed it away, along with all the other buried thoughts and sensations too painful to be confronted in the harsh light of day.
As she wandered through the sepulchral silence, Christine found herself thinking of the snow-encrusted carriages rolling by in the world above. And in her state of isolation, it seemed there had been something strange and sweet in the bleakness of the landscape, the frosted ground. So far away it seemed now, and her heart ached at the thought that all she had striven for might be lost to her forever. Her life had been chiffon and lace and sweet summer mornings. But now Erik had taken her once more, and with Erik came darkness, and there would be no more summer.
But still, in her inmost heart, there was a resigned solace, a bittersweet solitude in being away from it all at last, away from the looks of pity and the politely veiled curiosity that followed her like a shadow. Away from those idle hours where she had wandered like a shade through the vast halls of Raoul's mansion, a ghost of her former self. Day following day with the interminable sameness. Chandeliers and champagne and endless waltzes. Empty conversation rising and falling around her. Trapped in crinoline, she had stared dully into mirrors and the gilt surfaces of things and hardly knew herself. Everyone was courteous and polite and kind besides, and she could have responded, had she cared to. But the sense of wrongness persisted, whispered to her through the liminal hours as the moon climbed ever higher, and would give her no rest. Yet the cultured, tinkling voices of idle gossip had been worse (such a sweet, such a pretty thing, wouldn't you agree, Dorian?).
Perhaps, in some perverse way, she had brought this upon herself, not content to be satisfied with the peace she had so dearly bought.
There was a flutter of white on the organ stand, and she curiously made her way forward, picking up the letter and scanning its contents rapidly.
Christine,
I could not bring myself to disturb you while you slept. I have merely gone out to arrange a few matters. My absence will not be long; I have already spent far too many hours apart from you. In the meantime, occupy yourself as you wish; my home is yours.
As am I, and always will be,
Erik
Christine frowned at the note, particularly the adieu. She wondered how long the 'few matters' would keep him away for. Unthinking, the paper still clutched in her hand, she sank onto the seat beside the organ until she recalled the last time she had done so. God! How could she have forgotten? She recoiled with a suppressed cry as visions of the night before flooded through her. She covered her face with her hands as terrible guilt overwhelmed her.
He had done it again. Drawn her to him with the power of his voice. Why had she succumbed? Why did she always fall victim to that fatal power that no mortal man should possess? By rights, she should have passed the night in tearful solitude, silently praying for Raoul to rescue her from this – this – divine hell, this damned heaven she found herself trapped in just as hopelessly as though she had never broken free of its fatal clutches. Her peace of mind was disturbed, and memories she had thought forever dead were awakened.
She thought of Raoul and his warm and tender heart, perhaps the only thing in this world strong enough to drive away the darkness that threatened to consume her. His youthful figure traced so deeply in her mind, educated and earnest, subtle and sincere.
In truth, there was more than a hint of veneration in her love for Raoul – an innocent, transparent artlessness in her devotion towards him. Never before had she encountered any man so chivalrous, generous, affable, merry and warm-hearted; his clear heart was traced in his features so far unstained with the cruelty of life's bitterness. And in turn, his love had a trace of the spiritual about it; he did not love with the furious, burning intensity of consuming passion, but with an open, ardent affection. Pure love, virtuous love, cherished love. Was there anything more beautiful in the world? And to think it might be lost to her forever…
Her sense of misery increased. What would Raoul think? Would he realise Erik was the one responsible for her absence and silence? And if so, what if he thought she had willingly returned to him? God knows she had given him enough cause to, after their quarrel. So vividly she could imagine his dear face and bright, strong blue eyes; it made her faint with longing. I spoke rash words, my love, which I now repent with all my heart. Had I known that it might be our last night together, how differently I would have acted! How sweetly the hours would have passed as we watched the winter night from the candlelit warmth of your room, and spoke of a thousand different things, of poems and memories and dreams. The comforting warmth of your shoulder that I would lean against, your soft, beloved hand in mine…
They could have been so blissfully happy together… recaptured the purity of the love they had once shared, a love without any memories of the darkness that sought to tear them apart… Only that was before; before Piangi and Joseph Buquet, and my sweet father, before Erik tore my hopes and dreams to ash and crushed them beneath his feet, a thousand, thousand years ago. All before the fire had burned her out.
And how could she make Raoul understand, heartfelt and honest Raoul to whom all love was simple and uncomplicated, and not hopelessly bound up with past reminders of music and memories? Raoul could never understand what she had had with Erik and would never understand what she had lost without him. A piece of herself that had been missing ever since her father died and she had seen his poor, wasted face, rigid and lifeless, the light gone out of his eyes for good. A part of her had been buried that day, too, and the course of her existence forever altered.
Would Gustave Daae cry to learn what had become of his daughter? Or had he known something, a subtle premonition the day he called the girl to his bedside in the small house at the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, holding her tightly to him, kissing her and weeping inconsolably? And if so, why had he not told her?
The worst of it was, she could hardly remember his face. Only those wistful blue eyes that would watch over her in the night and chase the darkness away. And yet this was one demon he had never warned her about.
Oh father, why did you not warn me of the perils of surrendering my soul to a stranger? I did nothing to defend myself from being overcome, but lost myself to that voice and presence without a thought to the fatal consequences. And by the time I learned the terrible truth, I was already too far gone, too deeply fallen into the abyss. I try to tear myself away, but always, always, I am brought back!
Perhaps she might have had a choice once, but that choice would have been at the beginning of her life, when had never heard of Erik or the Opera Ghost. Raoul had tried to warn her almost a year ago, at the cemetery. He's got a hold over you, he had said to her later that night. Mama Valerius had warned her even before that. Such a power is not of this earth. It comes either from heaven or hell. Take care, child. They had all warned her, but she had been too stubborn, too naïve, too much a child to listen when she should have. But Christine pushed that thought away, because to acknowledge it meant that she knew. Knew that she was merely repeating a chapter of a long, long story, and one whose ending had a terrible sense of inevitably to the whole thing.
Because, oh... when was the last time she had sung with her whole body and soul? Who could condemn her for having fallen into a rapture so long denied her, even if it brought her indescribable pain? If this was to be her downfall, her damnation and destruction, how sweet the annihilation was. But she had not been annihilated. She had been brought to life. Surrendering herself entirely to this strange force that had dominated her mind and heart ever since she could remember.
What was the supreme purpose of her being, if not music? What other meaning could her existence hold, what else could touch her soul and move her spirit so deeply?
They had sung together deep into the night that would ever after come to her in a fever dream, sweet and sacred and profound. Standing at his side at the organ, her clear, heart-rending voice ringing through the hollowed dwelling so long deprived of her presence, echoing the heartache and loneliness of the man seated beside her. The sombre mood passed through her very being, a sound that pierced her heart. Time lost all meaning. She was lost, drowning in the immeasurably soft and evocative notes that dwelt on a lifetime of yearning. As with all things of true beauty, his song was touched with irrevocable sadness. The sensitive melody called to her, pulling from her the deepest emotions of her soul. She sang for Erik, for herself and for the lost memories of her father playing his violin along the shore before he had been lowered into the cold, hard ground. Erik's fingers moved ceaselessly over the instrument with energy and impulse, though the arm that brushed against hers was wracked with violent tremors. The unmasked side of his face was revealed to her, and tears were coursing unheeded down his cheeks. Exposed features were taut with fierce concentration and barely contained self-control. He hardly dared look at her, as though every brief glimpse of her face overpowered him. The dark eyes that occasionally flashed on hers were torn by agony and hope.
She sang until the candle flames wavered and died, until she was aware of nothing but the searing heat of him beside her and this music that was intense and grief stricken and all-enveloping. He drew from her feelings she had not known existed, an ache she thought long buried, until her voice became too choked to continue. He carried on playing softly, while her song faded into the surrounding darkness. The only light was that beside her, in the depths of his eyes that were filled with such pleading and torment.
Overcome with emotion, at last she rested her head against the side of his face, letting his tears mingle with hers.
In the sacrosanct hush, it seemed the very world had stopped turning. For a long time (an eternity it seemed), they remained unmoving. The heat of his skin scorched her. She was overwhelmed by memories. The last few months dispersed and blew away like ashes in the wind. She was here once more with her trusted spirit and guide. One who knew her better than she knew herself, had appeared to her in her darkest hours. She felt his pain as keenly as though it were her own. He had always watched her, always looked out for her. And how had she repaid him? Betrayal and abandonment. She could feel his hot tears drying on her face and knew she had been the cause of them. Icy guilt clawed through her. Her comforter, her confidant… how could she? How could she?
With a tentative movement, as though terrified at his own boldness, Erik reached out a gloved hand, leathern fingers coming into contact with the silken material of her loose sleeve and brushing slightly against bare skin. The act of instigated contact was enough to bring reality rushing back. Christine flinched and withdrew at once; her pulse jumped. Sudden fear clutched at her insides. She pulled away at once, stumbling to her feet. There was a pounding in her ears.
"What have you done to me?" she whispered. "You've – you've made me – I feel – I remember – oh God!"
Erik stood up and took a couple of entreating steps towards her, hands outstretched. The mask hovered over her. All her old terror of him had returned. Not for what he was, but for how he influenced her. He devoured her with his looks. "You remember how things were. How they used to be. You always had someone in this world to rely on, to draw your strength from. Even after your father died. He left you and you found an angel. And once that angel left… there was no one. Did you find such comfort with your Vicomte? Did you?" His mouth twisted with cruel satisfaction. "I think not."
"I was a grieving child, Erik!," she cried, wanting to put her hands over her ears to escape his voice that was still agonisingly lovely even in moments such as this. "I trusted you, more than anyone, more than I can ever –" She broke off, tears burning in her eyes. She looked up at him, braving the murderer that flashed through his expression at her outright defiance. A latent fire burned in the depths of his dark eyes. "You can seduce me with music, you can manipulate me, but you cannot make me deny that I made the right choice. I made my decision through honesty and love. But you – you're merely a pretence. I pity you."
Pity. God almighty, if there was one thing he did not want to hear from her! Pity! As though he truly were some cringing dog that clung to her skirts, that only lived if she deigned to glance on him. But she was right. His only power over her was through manipulation and force. The knowledge struck him with a crippling intensity. Angrily, he dashed the tears from his face even as he felt new ones begin to rise. His last hope was gone. Not even the tender memories of the past could redeem him in her mind.
"So it is true," he said hoarsely. He took a deep, shuddering breath and continued dully. "You really do feel nothing for me, then. It is gone forever."
His voice was filled with so much agony that Christine's tender heart, so inclined to sympathy, could not help but relent slightly. "No," she breathed softly. "That simply isn't true, as I told you before." She gazed earnestly into his face; he was lost in her soft, grave eyes. "Do you know what I felt on learning you were alive?"
"Pity," he supplied dully. "Compassion." He did not dare hope for anything more.
"I felt –" Christine's hand rose slowly to the side of her face; her soulful eyes were absent and he knew that at the moment she was not seeing him. This was unexpected, it was unsettling… Something great and wondrous and terrible began to unfold inside him. He knew – knew, despite his cursed ugliness, his despicable nature – that there was more. He stepped forward, his breathing quickened.
"What?" he demanded insistently. "What did you feel?"
"More than I can express," she whispered.
Erik stared at her, struck by an intense yearning he had not felt since that night he had glimpsed her performing Hannibal, sweet and slender and starry-eyed, alight with youth and hope, and the vision stopped his breath.
"Is there any hope? Just an inch – a fraction – anything – give me something." His melodic voice was jarred with harsh breaths and tones of frantic urgency.
Christine pressed her hands against her face at his words; when she pulled them away, deep impressions remained in the tender skin. She seemed to take a moment to collect herself before saying in tones of deliberated calm, "I do feel something for you, Erik. I cannot deny that it is strong and intense… overwhelming… but it isn't love."
"Not yet."
"I could never trust you enough to love you."
Her words were like a death knell, extinguishing that last flicker of hope that had kindled like a pure light before his eyes.
Blinding, blackening emotion came crashing over him in one great sweeping wave. He felt a rising convulsion of fury and despair building up deep inside his chest. The blood was pounding in his ears. He felt the fatal manuscript of Don Juan thundering through his body once more, the rage and fire of culminating madness throbbing through each vein in a frenzy he had thought – no prayed – never again to experience. He could no longer think. All he knew was Christine was going to break his heart again. He wasn't strong enough for this. He had been through enough. He had seen enough. No more! Let it end, please just let it end… the screaming inside him was rising to a crescendo, seeking an outlet.
"So you torment me?" His voice was shaking as the words left him in a distorted snarl; he could have torn her apart with his bare hands... (No, I will never hurt her, never –!) "You tear my life apart for a maybe? I have wept for you, sighed for you, almost died for you – and for what? Merely that you don't despise me? Allow me to declare myself honoured at such generosity!"
"What do you want me to say?" she demanded, eyes flaring with brilliant anger.
He was standing barely inches from her. She had forgotten how tall he was. "Lie to me," he breathed, low and deadly. Christine could not move. "Tell me you love me."
"I can't," she said.
A long, terrible silence followed this pronouncement.
Beneath the mask, Erik's face worked and convulsed as his hands gripped the thick, black waves of his hair. Christine watched silently, fighting off conflicting emotions of guilt and compassion. She would never come to him willingly, but that did not mean she could watch him suffer without empathy.
"You drove me away!" he shouted suddenly. "Oh, mad Christine, why did you drive me away? Did you not see it would be easier to think you loathed me, than this – this – hell you have trapped me in! Can you not see that my last state will be worse than my first?"
He broke off, breathing heavily, writhing memories flashing through his mind in a spinning kaleidoscope of injury and insanity. A candlestick gripped in one hand. Shattered glass beneath his feet. Blood running through his fingers. Splintered, distorted, manifold images of a demon reflected in blinding prisms every way he turned. A shudder ran through his entire body. He could not endure this again. He would not. Whirling on the spot, he sought an escape from the horror of those memories, the horror of himself. His suffering rose to agony. He could stay here no longer. It took every muster of self-will to say, "It is late. I would advise you to retire." His voice was as dead as he felt.
A whirl of his cloak, and he was gone.
Christine opened her eyes, shaken by the vivid recollection. The sight of his face when she had shattered all his hopes was burned into her soul. Could she ever forget that look? A desperate, malevolent yearning, a need more intense than life itself. And yet she had not sought his love, had never wanted it. Her heart was filled with pity and sorrow.
He raised me from the depths of despair and I have caused him nothing but misery. Oh Lord, you did not bring him death, but could you not have brought him peace?
But even in death, he would have remained with her, his spirit an ever-constant shadow at her side, blighting her happiness. The dead raised up incorruptible. Christine shuddered. There were enough ghosts haunting her in the silent hours. Her father looking at her with hollow, despairing eyes. Mama Valerius smiling even as she coughed up her own blood. Piangi on fire and trying not to scream. Looking back brought too many memories.
Awful as seeing Erik again would undoubtedly be, the prospect of being left alone with nothing but her own reflections for company was almost equally unbearable. She could not stand this cruel isolation – she who had once loved being alone, had found sweet repose and gentle dreams in solitude – was now weighed down by too many memories, too many fears of what was yet to come. Ever since she had known him, she had been in a wilderness of doubt and dread. She paced, endlessly, endlessly, distracted, restless.
She perused Erik's brief note again, her distracted step turned towards the dining room. At the doorway, she paused.
The room was laid out as though for a bridal feast, yet a haunted air of solemn dejection hung over the scene. The table was adorned with a simple yet elegant white cloth, bordered with a thin gold lining. One of the chairs at the end was already pulled out; a place was set with silver cutlery. White roses (white for love forsaken) drooped in vases and scattered their petals sadly over the pale cloth.
And all this might have awaited me, Christine thought wonderingly. Had I not fled into the night and said words that I did not mean and now regret with all my heart… A heaviness filled her heart. Some haunting premonition told her that she was not going to be married.
She took a seat uncertainly, her trembling fingers reaching for the dishes, though everything seemed to turn to ash in her mouth. She forced herself to eat, feeling she would choke on every mouthful. She had almost withered away to a ghost last winter and she could not do so again.
The hours of deep sleep and sustenance began to help her recover, and Christine felt a measure of her innate endurance and strength returning. A curiosity to explore more of this place, so reflective of the soul of its owner, began to overcome the melancholic apathy that had weighed on her spirit for so long.
She knew better than to hope to glimpse the haunting, poetic beauty of this place, for the water and fire had done their work all too efficiently; the adornments of tarnished candelabras and scorched draperies insufficient to conceal the destruction that she had inadvertently brought upon this place. She saw it again, in her mind's eye as it once was, wandering through endless rooms with no occupants. The smell of incense and leather and old books. And there had been paper. Stacks and stacks of it, stanzas and nocturnes and unfinished novels gathering dust as the water dripped monotonously into the empty silence. His house. Nothing but paper and time. All gone, lost to the flames.
The silence was unnerving. This was a place that thrived on music; the sombre quiet only highlighted the sense of emptiness. Christine decided to look for some score sheets she could play. It would serve a dual purpose in distracting her and breaking the oppressive silence that hung in the gloomy air. One of the shelves was piled high with books and loose sheaths of paper. Beneath a particularly weighty volume of Shakespeare's sonnets was stacked a pile of these pages, one of which she realised upon closer examination was an extract of Rousseau's Julie. Curiosity impelled her to read on in spite of herself (she had begun to believe that nothing could stir her tired soul), drawn into the passionate and yearning world inhabited by Julie and Saint-Preux. She devoured every word, keenly, desperately, feeling every emotion as though it were her own.
I cannot live without you, I know, and this frightens me most. A hundred times a day I walk through the places where we used to be together, but I never find you there. I wait for you at your usual hour, but the hour comes and goes and you do not appear. Everything I see reminds me of you, only to inform me that I have lost you…
She paused, silent and thoughtful. The page was folded and stained; clearly it had been read many times. Christine pressed a pale hand to the faded pages, long-forgotten words rising startlingly in her memory. Fate links thee to me forever and a day. She needed to see more, know more, and with a strange urgency she did not understand, attempted to uncover the remaining pages. As she pulled the book aside, a sheath of loose papers fell out. Christine sighed with frustration and knelt to retrieve them. She barely gave the sheets a glance and went to put them back, when she realised that they were not music scores, as she had absently assumed, but were densely packed with hurried, unsteady handwriting, divided in a series of passages that had clearly been written over a long period of time. Curious as it was, she would never have given it another thought had she not seen a name scrawled across the top of one of the pages. The name was her own. The handwriting was Erik's.
Her heart beating strangely, Christine looked down and began to read,
… Without you, I languish and waste away. I no longer see, I no longer feel anything. I am consumed by memories of you beside me. I remember how things were and it drives me mad with longing. I once thought it torture having to watch you with a barrier of glass ever between us, never able to touch or be near you, but even that was sweet compared to this… oh God, I was a fool in wishing for more, for daring to reveal myself, when I should have been satisfied merely with the joy of seeing you learn and flourish beneath my tutelage…! If I am in hell now, it is a hell of my own making.
March, 1881
I can bear this no longer in silence. Perhaps when you recognise the hand that has written this letter, you will immediately tear it up, and my misery shall never be read. But I appeal to your pity and beg you to hear what I must say.
I would never have dared written this if I could hope to see you and speak to you just once...! That alone would have sustained me. I would then think of nothing else till my dying breath…
Do you feel nothing of this agony and fever that burns constantly in my veins? The world passes me by yet I am not of it. It means nothing to me. I feel that time is short but I cannot escape this state of hopeless apathy. Every day that passes is barren and meaningless, unless on waking, I might catch a distant glimpse of you...
November, 1881
Do not think that I have not tried to break away; the paths of Europe must weary with the number of times my feet have trodden them, but it is all in vain. I am drawn back to France, to Paris, to you. You must know what this means, though I have not dared send a word your way, despite having set my pen to paper hundreds of times. I am drawn to desperate measures and dare not think what I might do – my very soul shrinks against it – and yet to see you once more, to grasp you in my arms and call you my own, my darling, my love -!
For I love you, Christine. I love you so much it consumes me.
I would defy God and his legions for an hour in your presence. Let the consequences fall where they may, for I have endured this loneliness long enough. I have nothing to lose, for my life, my heart, my soul, are gone from me, all banished to the same place.
They all reside in you.
June, 1881
I'm here alone in a state of constant torture. If you but knew the bitter tears and anger I suffer in solitude, you would not despise me, as I fear you must. Do not lose your compassion, Christine. It is the one pure and beautiful thing in this wretched world. If you could but send me one word, either to let me know if I may hope, or if all hopes end. It is enough. I throw myself entirely at your mercy.
But I cannot forget. I cannot. The whole of nature conspires to remind me of your existence. Your image is burned into my mind. Your haunted eyes, your soft voice, the beauty of your soul… it makes me wild with despair that I may never see them again, and I resolve that it shall not be so. No. I will not believe you lost to me. You are not so far from me yet. I do not know where or when or how, but I will see you again. I must see you again. Feelings so strong will not be denied. If fate will not allow our paths to cross, then I will find you myself. Until then, I am forced to live with this fire and despair, which will ease only with the sight of you, or in the tomb.
The papers slid to the floor.
Christine remained deathly still, each unsteady breath coming faster and faster, feeling something gradually looming over her – or inside her. Something dark and imminent and inexorable. She could feel the blood draining from her face, rushing straight to her heart as the pounding in her chest intensified beyond endurance, a pain unfamiliar and agonising.
It was too much. She wanted to close her eyes. To forget. To have not been so foolish – so callous – as to intrude into his private emotions and expose what she had denied to herself all these months. In that moment, she knew herself. She understood what she had feared without knowing it.
She recalled her words of last night – so cruel and heartless they seemed now! – This isn't love! This is lust. And a desire to possess.
Yes, it was easier, so much easier to have believed that to be so! It eased the burden of guilt and sorrow that had become a part of her ever since the night she had pulled the mask from his face and committed an act of betrayal she would regret for the rest of her life. She had been told by everyone with self-righteous assurance that his was a dark, twisted desire that held no affinity with the purity of true, sincere love. And so she had persuaded herself that a man able to commit such atrocities could never have any understanding of genuine love. Therefore, what remorse could she feel in denying him? But now –
Were these the words of lust? Were these the words of a distorted mind that sought only possession and destruction?
Or were they the words of a lonely soul, an unquiet heart lost in a hopeless passion?
What had she done to him?
Half-blindly, Christine picked up the sheets once more. She shivered, both to read and not to read. Inexplicable fears seized her. Unimaginable thoughts crowded her mind, each making less sense than the last. Nothing made sense anymore.
Was she ready for this? Something great and indefinable had been altered. In the lair of an angel, she had stumbled upon a book of Revelation. She felt herself on the verge of some great tragedy.
Her fingers shook as she perused the faded manuscripts once more, as though reading them again would somehow make it less true, less awful and overwhelming. Every word pierced her heart. In her hand the whole mystery of love was exposed to her: the destiny, the sorrow, the endurance, the entirety. She read through the pages again in a trembling state of mind, seeing in the lines a writer possessed with hope amidst despair, agony amidst ecstasy. One who had nothing to lose, chained to hell with but distant glimpses of heaven. She needed no signature to know there was only one man who could have written such a letter. As in his music, his words conveyed the same divine beauty, touched with infinite sadness. The tone was passionate yet sombre, resigned yet frenzied; the lines burned with fervour and energy yet he seemed on the brink of seeking refuge in death. To what extremes must he have been driven to write with such abandon and desperation? It was all too urgent, too desperate and raw and vulnerable. He had written as though he must, written to keep the emptiness from consuming him. In these faded sheets of paper, she held the very essence of his soul.
Oh, how much harder this made things now! If she had ever doubted the depths of his passion towards her, these words must surely refute it! She had to accept the inevitable. She could not hide from it, nor deny it to herself any longer. He loved her. He loved her.
Those words were traced across her mind in letters of fire. And she would remember them until her dying day.
I love you, Christine. I love you so much it consumes me.
She had not come here for this. She had not wanted to discover the extent of the pain she had inflicted on this man. Inflicted unintentionally, but that did not absolve her. It just hurt all the more, as she had no control over it, no means of releasing him from his torment. She closed her eyes, fighting down tears. If only he had never brought her here! She no longer cared if it was selfish of her to wish such a thing. That innate nobility she had always aspired to could not endure under the weight of such a heavy burden. Why was it that every time she came closer to him, it just brought more pain? She was a girl of eighteen; she had buried a father, a woman she had loved as a mother, had been forced to renounce her father a second time when she realised the foundation of her hopes and dreams had been built on nothing but lies… even the Opera House, the only home she had known since her father had gone, had been burnt to the ground – everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by death –
She could no longer be strong or courageous or stoic, or any of those virtues she had striven to uphold since her return. It was all a fragile facade to prevent her from collapsing. She had tried to be strong, to hide her pain from the world, and now Erik was back, and he – he –
Christine realised, she was breathing unevenly, taking deep, gasping breaths, one hand braced against the shelf to hold herself upright. It was too hard. She could not stand this anymore, all of it, it was too much –
She was so close now to just falling to her knees and weeping, as she had last night.
And that must not happen. Not after this great change. Nothing could ever be the same.
Her resolve was beginning to falter and she could not let that happen. For a moment, Christine dimly allowed herself to imagine a future – a future that saw the rest of the life she thought she would have slip away through her fingers like air that couldn't be held – and a blinding, convulsive horror seized her, wrenched more deeply than the remorse that tore her heart. It was hard to breathe, every inhalation a struggle. No. She would not stay with him through pity. She would not. I can't. God forgive me, I can't.
She felt faint and ill. She could barely hold up her head. The contents of his letters had pierced her heart. And she would not embrace that rapturous pain. She had to leave this place. At once. While she still had the strength. It went against her heart to abandon a soul so desperately in need, but to do otherwise would certainly destroy her.
Before she had gathered any sense of control over body, racked with tremors, Christine realised she was running, running to escape, it, him, herself… she came to an unsteady halt at the steps that led to the surface of the lake. Her tear-dashed eyes quickly scanned the oily surface and came to rest on the portcullis. She was familiar enough with Erik's house to know there was no hope of discovering a means of flight through one of the rooms. The gate was the way she had entered; it must also serve as her escape. She just hoped the water wasn't too deep.
There was no boat, nothing she could use to propel herself across the water. Christine removed her slippers slowly, leaving them reluctantly on the bank. A choking sensation rose in her throat. They had been given to her, a gift from Raoul, and she felt as though she were losing a piece of him by abandoning them. But soon she would (please Lord, let it be so) see his tender, ardent face once more, have him hold her cherished in his arms and never be parted from her again… never… never…
There was nothing for it. She would have to wade – or swim, should the necessity arise. She would not allow herself to hesitate, nor to entertain any thoughts or doubts. She had to escape before Erik found new ways to shatter her soul. Even now, those plush, lyrical cadences tugged her, pulled her into that drowning darkness. Oh, to give in to those velvet, evocative tones… I dread this secret longing, this strange hold you have over me. Why will you not let me go? Why do you pursue me like this?
His hell-blasted face rose in her mind's eye, pleading and tormented, his voice calling her, the violent and plaintive tones following her over the pounding of her heart, fierce and insistent – no, no, she must turn away, she must forget –
Oh Raoul, I will see you again, but if I die, I hope I forget all this before I do!
Christine braced herself and stepped into the water… and immediately gasped at the sensation of a dozen knives piercing her flesh. She had forgotten – or never had opportunity to realise – how cold the lake was. Her skirts were drenched and beginning to weigh her down and she was already shivering, but she refused to let it daunt her. Wading through the depths of the lake, she made with somewhat unsteady deliberation for the portcullis. She was barely halfway across, and already the water had risen past her knees and was fast approaching her waist.
There must be something, some mechanism or device Erik used to control the entrance. She would find it… she would find it…
Her foot caught on something submerged at the bottom of the misty depths, and she fell face down into the murky depths. For a moment, blinding confusion swirled around her ears, her elbow painfully struck stone. Then she was up again, shivering uncontrollably, pallid as a drowned corpse. Her wet hair clung to her face; numb hands pushed the damp strands away in frustration. Unease had begun to creep in. She was by no means afraid of water, but trapped in such icy depths in what undoubtedly led to the Parisian sewers where she was certain she had seen things move, Christine's imagination began to indulge in a series of gruesome outcomes. If anything happened to her down here, who would know? She thought suddenly of Count Philippe's fate and shuddered. The treacherous depths cloying at her hips could pull her down at any instant. What if she blindly wandered into some rip or current from one of the connecting tunnels? Furthermore, even if she did find a way out, how on earth was she to find the way to the surface? The Parisian underworld had probably tunnels enough that she could starve to death without ever coming near the outside world.
I'm not afraid, she told herself, over and over. I'm not afraid.
She was cold, trapped, and half out of her mind with fear. It meant nothing. For the love of Raoul (just to see him again, at least once!) she would never stop trying to get back to him, no matter how cold or lonely or hurt or afraid she might be.
You are the love of my life. I will always come back to you. I am coming, my love. I am coming.
Christine gave a choked, half-sobbing gasp of relief when she was able to cling onto the rungs of the portcullis. Her legs were aching from carrying the additional weight of her clinging garments; her ankle was throbbing from a twist it had received when she had fallen. She was unsure whether she had cut it from the fall, and dreaded the effect the unclean water might have on an open wound. She had heard stories of what happened to victims of blood poisoning. It was a horrible way to die.
Oh God, what had she been thinking? Why had she not simply remained where she was and waited for Raoul to come and rescue her? And he would rescue her. He loved her, more than anything in this life, and would do everything to find her – she should never have doubted him. She belonged to him and he to her. No matter where she went, he would find her. She realised that now. Even before daring the depths of hell itself, he would have put every gendarme in Paris on the hunt for her – and she knew he had the influence to carry such a motion forward. It was inevitable he would find her. Of that she had no doubts. But she had come this far. She might as well see if she could make the desperate, foolhardy venture worth something.
The metal framework was beginning to chafe her hands, but she refused to let go. Her foot was throbbing, which filled her with increasing apprehension. Moving unsteadily along, water lapping at her waist as she gripped the portcullis with one hand, she sought to find anything that could give her an indication of how she might open it.
Slow minutes passed in this determined manner, as Christine refused to admit to herself that the effort was futile. She knew, deep down (had always known) that Erik was too cunning to install a device that could be discovered by anyone who just happened to be passing by. But still, she must try… she would try…
Greenish light danced around her, causing her blurring vision to play tricks. Wayward, wicked illusions darted before her. Sometimes she was certain she saw things, at one point she willingly plunged into the water in excitement, only to realise she was trying to grasp her own reflection. At this she gave a wild laugh that echoed sadly around the subterranean cavern. Diving for her own shadow! It was no wonder though… she could hardly see a metre in front of her. Black shapes kept swimming before her eyes; she had to keep blinking to push them away…
It was so cold! She wondered if she would ever be warm again. She was shaking uncontrollably, her breath coming short and ragged. If only she didn't feel so light-headed! The icy sensation had penetrated her very bones; every muscle in her body ached. Twice more, she slipped into the water; twice more she pulled herself up. She could no longer stand unaided, but the rungs kept slipping from her fingers... It vaguely occurred to her that she would somehow have to try and swim back. Perhaps she would try when she less tired. Yes, she would rest here first, and try another attempt later. The gate was support enough.
It was laughable, really… here she was trapped alone in an underground lake, yet all she wanted to do was sleep. Exhaustion, like chains, dragged her down. It was cold, oh, so cold… She couldn't move, or breathe, or think. Her body trembled; her eyes grew dimmer and dimmer.
My God, am I dying?
Oh! If only she could see Raoul again. She felt as though her heart were wasting away. She would die out of her senses, and Erik – Erik –
If she did escape him, what then?She could fly to the ends of the earth, and still he would come after her... She was too far gone beyond consciousness, too out of her mind with delirium, to know whether the realisation brought her despair or solace.
I felt death near me once before, darkness and despair, and you came… please come to me now… do not abandon me here alone in this place… forgive me for fleeing, for I can never leave you… Erik… Erik… Oh, it is so dark… and the cold is like death…
Still her skirts were dragging her down, and perhaps after all, it was easier to yield…
Erik discovered her moments later: a pallid, lifeless figure draped against the portcullis, long hair floating around her like Ophelia in the river.
Even in the swift paralysing stab of terror that pierced his heart, he did not hesitate. He rowed towards her with swift, frantic strokes, a ragged wail of agony he was not aware of escaping him. With a savage movement, he had torn his gloves off, throwing them heedlessly to the bottom of the boat, and he raised Christine's prone body against the curve of his arm and pressed his trembling fingers against the base of her throat. She was cold as ice, the blue veins visible beneath the marble pallor of her skin, he assumed from the water, God, let it only be from the water…
His hands were shaking so much, his heart palpitating with a queer, unsteady rhythm, at first it was impossible to discern anything, but he gradually became aware of a strong pulse beating beneath his fingers. Such a wave of relief and euphoria overcame him that Erik sank mindlessly into the boat, pulling Christine down with him.
He cradled her gently in his arms, trying to transfer some warmth to her cold figure. He had spent a lifetime railing against God with all his being, but now he unashamedly sent repeated prayers of gratitude heavenward, a hand smoothing Christine's wet tresses, tenderly tracing the lines of her face as though to commit them to memory.
I thought you were dead and thought I should die myself… never leave me again, for my heart cannot stand it… do you hear me? Christine, do you understand? I cannot live without you. God, never let me live without you…
Christine's eyes open a fraction. She stared at Erik through blurring eyes, half-faint with delirium. He stroked the damp hair from her fevered brow with burning fingers. It was a gesture of tenderness she had not seen in months, years (ever).
"Erik?" she muttered. "I dreamed of you…"
"You are extremely foolish," he said.
Christine fainted.