The Mask and Mirror

Distance is covering your way,
Tears your memory
All this beauty is killing me

Oh, do you care,
I still feel for you
Oh, so aware,
What should be lost is there

I fear I will never, never find anyone
I know my greatest pain is yet to come
Will we find each other in the dark
My long lost love

(Nightwish – Beauty of the Beast)

Chapter 8

She had tried to leave him.

That was the overwhelming, undeniable truth. It pierced him like a spear through the soul. A hurt that no music or madness or murder could ever hope to drown.

He laid at her feet a love that would make the very angels weep, yet she could only recoil from him in terror and loathing. How could it be possible? How could a God exist and inflict such cruelty? A blind, dumb God, indifferent to all creation, abandoning his subjects to a world where vice and vanity reigned as lords and masters. Where the pitiful and outcast were ground further into the dust, unless they could retreat to hide in the darkness. Alone.

He had tried so hard, all these weary days and months. All for nothing. He was clinging to an illusion – a vain, deluded hope – of what he could never have. The harder he sought to grasp her, the more elusive she became, slipping from his possessive grasp like mist or moonlight, something ethereal and eternally unattainable. At this moment in time, she was sleeping only metres from him, but never had she seemed so far away.

Was there anything in this world but pain?

Erik was curled against the organ seat, breathing, because there was nothing more he could do, breathing, just to get through the next moment and all the moments after that must inevitably follow. Life stretched relentlessly ahead: infinite, grey, forbidding. Oh, the world was a bleak place without love or hope! Forever was a long time to be alone. Even death could not hurt as much as this. It was better to die than to remember. His heart seemed to have collapsed inside his chest, as though the bitter weight it carried had become too much at last. Yet it continued beating, reminding him that he was alive, alive… and he was not hers. But still he would love her, until his last breath. Erik buried his masked face in his hands, head and temples filled with a violent, lancing pain. He was so weary he wanted to die.

"Christine…" he muttered hoarsely, feeling his throat tear at the sound. "Christine, why did you run? Why do you always run? I promised to love you and I kept my promise. I kept my promise. I always will. I won't abandon you. Never, never, never…"

Never, never, never…

The cavernous walls repeated the words back to him in endless mockery. He was deluding himself. Perhaps there truly was no cure for his loneliness. After all, she was high-souled and tender and compassionate, whereas he… he was a murderous shadow of a man, enflamed with hatred, haunted by desire. Could anything ever grow from two such dissimilar souls?

Dissimilar?

No, never, never! Had he forgotten, had she forgotten her voice lifted in sublime passion the night he had drawn her through the mirror, the words she had sung from Romeo and Juliet?

Fate links thee to me for ever and a day.

Cast aside the superficial differences, and they shared a soul. Whatever incandescent essence formed their beings, this soul, this spark of divinity was lodged within them both, forever sundered and hopelessly, endlessly seeking its other half, that sense of divine completeness. How else could two voices, utterly unknown to one another, be formed in such harmony? Hearing her sing for the first time had been like emerging from the darkness of death. Even now, the memory paralysed him, held him lost in speechless sorrow. The brilliance of her soul-piercing notes had brought him his first true experience of joy in a world he had almost renounced forever.

Yes, despite all the forces of heaven and hell standing between them, they were bound together through a love for music. When she had sung for him last night, he had watched her intently; alive to every expression that trembled through her eyes, and knew – knew with a conviction that defied all reason – that never before had she experienced such an intensity of emotion. When she rested her head against his and he felt the warmth of her skin, the scent of her hair and saw her utterly surrender without restraint, there had been his brief glimpse of heaven. It had been the agony of the crucifixion and the ecstasy of the resurrection all in one. But all things must come to an end. The gate was shut. That all too fleeting moment would not be a source of comfort to him, but merely serve as a reminder of what he could never have.

And Erik wept.

Wept hot, unrestrained tears with heaving, convulsive shudders. There was no use brushing them away. More would fall; fiery streams that were almost comforting. At least this was real, tangible. At least this excess of storm and fervour were proof he could still feel. Silver moisture flashed on his clenched hands with a pearly luminescence. Blindingly beautiful, brighter than the dim candlelight of his home, brighter by far than the consuming darkness he was left alone with. It was eating away at him inside, a sickness of the soul, a malady that would not heal. An emptiness, a breaking up of everything inside him.

His hands half-drifted instinctively towards the organ in front of him. The desire to play something was overwhelming. It was only Christine, lost in the depths of an uneasy sleep that stayed his hand. He wanted to forget. To bury himself in his music until nothing else mattered, allowing the notes to take possession of him. A storm of intensity and emotion tore through him. He wanted to throw himself into the crescendo and feel himself being burned, broken, annihilated. Nothing else mattered but the temptation to end this and to submit to a stronger force, so he no longer had to be himself. Anything to feel release.

Oh God. Christine…

How did she hurt him like this?

How could someone with such a gentle and innocent soul inflict so much heartache and torment?

She was a deadly poison in the blood. She had made him a madman. Erik glared over at the bed, feeling tightening coils of tension in the pit of his stomach. This anger was taking possession of him, a ravenous beast sinking its claws into his skin, sharp-toothed and blazing-eyed. She really had no idea… lying there lost in the depths of oblivion. Sleep had long since ceased to hold any rest for him. She even invaded his dreams. Her neck was exposed, startlingly white in contrast to the mass of dark curls that clustered about her shoulders. Crimson sheets covered her torso in rippling disorder. How easy it would be… just to gather them around her pale throat and end it there. Conclude this entire bitter fiasco. No more would she be able to hold sway over his emotions. Had anyone else come anywhere near as close to weakening him, he would have ended their existence long before this. But that face, those eyes, her voice…

Erik, I always cared for you, I never stopped, I –

"Stop it!" he snarled, realising he had spoken aloud when the walls threw the words back at him. She had lied to him. And he had believed her. Hadn't life taught him never to place his trust in anyone? Surely he must know that by now! Everyone lied. Even Christine. He had been fooled once again by her seeming innocence and show of compassion. What savage hilarity. He could laugh; split his tongue and break his ribs with laughing, laugh till the tears ran like blood from his eyes. It had been nothing but a charade to placate him, while all this time she had been waiting for a chance to escape. She had run at the first possible opportunity.

And she had thought his betrayal was cruel.

A potent dam of fury was simmering inside his veins. A hot feeling of rage, a red, mindless inability to think or see reason. Almost a relief to give into it and lose himself in the visceral haze that drowned out all pain. Abandon himself to the darkness and blood. He had done it before, countless times. Oh, he had brought the decadent Persian Empire down like a house of cards when the impulse had suited him! He had gloried in the destruction, murder dancing like wildfire in his eyes when the Shah's palace had collapsed in a pile of gilt and gilded flame, all the mirrors and illusions and dreams reduced to dust. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair. Why, even the wreckage of this very Opera House displayed the latent capacity for violence that ever burned low within him.

And she had been fool enough to awaken that terrible wrath. Hadn't she learned from Don Juan that he was not a man to be trifled with?

Angels don't forgive, Christine. They kill.

He could kill her, but still, still he hungered for her! Even if that desire caused him nothing but pain. Bringing her here had merely twisted the dagger deeper in his heart. It was killing both of them. But then… why should it not? Why should she be allowed happiness if he could have none? If you will not make my existence a heaven, then I must suffice with making yours a hell.

The Vicomte could give Christine the life she dreamed of, but still Erik refused to renounce her. Perhaps it was vanity or selfishness, but after everything he had endured, did he not deserve some measure of happiness? Perhaps people like me aren't made for happiness. No. He would not believe it. He would not accept defeat. The fact that burned him more than anything was that – for all his fervent wishes to the contrary – he knew that Raoul was a genuinely good man. He was kind and sincere, loyal and devoted to those he loved, yet still sensible and mature. There was no doubt the better man had won. It was this undeniable truth that caused the masked man to growl deep in his throat with rapidly building anger. His large, powerful hands clenched into fists, tensing with the desire to feel taut flesh beneath his fingers, to crush and crush and crush the pain from him until he felt breaking bones and snapping tendons. Erase his rival from existence that way.

He had been wrong in thinking his violent impulses towards the Vicomte had abated. He wanted to believe the rage in him had subsided, but it had been pride, not sincerity, that made it seem so. To hate Raoul was in his blood, just as it was to love Christine; something that was as much a part of him as his music. It was not everyone's fate to have an ultimate enemy in this world. It was ironic really, of all those great and powerful rulers he had incurred the wrath of over the years, it fell on the shoulders of a young naïve nobleman – barely out of the first flushes of youth – to arouse the fury of a creature of darkness. He silently vowed that if Raoul sought to prise from Christine from him again, he would have to finish the job he had begun in the cellars of the Opera. If he tries to take her from me once more, my vengeance will follow him to the ends of the earth.

Erik looked up; fire-reflecting eyes flashing malevolence. In a single moment, he had become the man who would commit murder again.

He had lost his ruthlessness. He knew that now. Even in Europe, his survival had been jeopardised on many an occasion by the uncharacteristic pangs of conscience that smote him, so akin to the reproachful flash of Christine's dark eyes that caught him in unguarded moments. Christine – his love for her – had weakened him for a time, loosening those bonds of anger and hatred that held him together, that had been essential for his survival. With that lost, what was he? He smiled with dark irony. An emotional wreck; allowing himself to be tossed around by self-pity, as helpless as a sea governed by tides. Well, no longer. Was it any wonder Christine could not love him; a contemptible wretch crippled by cowardice and self-loathing? What had happened to him? Time was he had been secure in his power and utter ruthlessness. A god among men. Hardening his heart regardless of the cost. He had drunk himself to intoxication, gorged himself on vice and blood, the roar of creation crescending through his music as both a summons and a warning. He had elevated himself beyond the paltry concerns of humankind. This had been his kingdom and empire. Glory and power and dominion, an angel of destruction raining hellfire on all those who sought to thwart me. There had been no uncertainty then. Master of his domain as Hades in the Underworld, enlightened as Faust with his paraphernalia of forbidden knowledge. It had not been a realm of happiness, but he had been content. He had lived his existence (he could not call it life) with a clarity and purpose. His reign had been merciless. Anyone not a friend was an enemy, and thus was dealt with accordingly.

He missed that certainty.

It was time to return to his old ways.

A soft sigh caused him to spin round in shock. A swift glance at the bed, and he saw Christine stirring. Her cheek was pale and hollow, as though already iced over by death. The blue veins were faintly visible beneath the translucent whiteness of her skin. Yet her expression was calm and tranquil in sleep, so reminiscent of those nights when his voice had brought her solace and chased the demons away. Agony and indecision rooted him to the spot. He was torn between the conflicting impulses of fury and tenderness. Her reaction would decide his. If she recoiled, it was done. All would be over between them. His hooded eyes, dark as baleful coals, narrowed, watching every movement with wariness. What was she thinking? What thoughts lingered beneath that serene countenance?

Light. Soft and dusky, it infiltrated her eyelids, pulling her away from the creeping cold sensation of swirling, eddying water around her. She thought she would never be warm again. The current sought to drag her under with pale, icy fingers. But that illumination, lambent, glowing, was becoming stronger and now there was warmth and the feel of silk caressing her skin –

Christine pressed her face deeper into the pillows, inhaling the heavy scent that reminded her simultaneously of roses, incense, and the sharpness of a cold winter's night. She turned over, passed a hand wearily across her brow and slowly opened her eyes.

Her dress had been removed. She was wearing only her loose white shift, and the thought that someone – he – must have been responsible was enough to bring a self-conscious blush rising in her cheeks… She tried to push away the thought that he must have seen her in a state of undress, aware suddenly of the tight, constricting sensation in her chest that made it very difficult to breathe. She frowned. Her lungs burning… the water… she had almost drowned out there. So that was why he had removed her restrictive outer corset…

"Erik?"

Erik. The masked man paused, stiffening with a sudden hesitance. The name sounded curiously meaningless and somehow detached from himself. Who was she speaking to? Who was he? Was he the murderer that ruthlessly committed atrocities without remorse, or the pitiful creature brought low by grief and weariness? Perhaps both. Or neither.

The sight of her, so young, so innocent, still flush from sleep… she was as delicate and pure as the roses he had once lavished upon her. Erik bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. It was nothing but lies, a deception. A beautiful deception, but a deception nevertheless. Never again would he be fooled by the tender sweetness of her tones. This love had utterly unmanned him. Why must he crumble at the mere sight of her, when he had once been the very definition of ruthlessness! She had reduced him to a bitter mockery. He was stronger than this. He had offered her everything in his power – music, glory, renown, and a love so great, so high, that it knew no bounds – and she had dared throw it back in his face? Did she know who he was, what he was capable of? Perhaps it was time to show her. After all, he had nothing left to lose. If hatred and anger was all he could ever hope to have from her, then so be it. The Vicomte might make her feel love and affection to all her heart's delight, but Erik at least would satisfy himself that he could stir something dark and primitive within her that all the light and joyous emotions in the world could never hope to rival.

She wanted to think he was a monster? Then he would give her one. After all, a devil didn't love. A devil claimed and possessed.

Christine tried to gather her disordered senses. Memories of her foolhardy escape attempt slowly resurfaced and she felt herself overwhelmed by a sense of shame and remorse. What had she done? How could she have thought to abandon him so callously, without so much as a word of kindness in parting? What had she achieved other than destroying any last hope that Erik might be saved? All through one despicable act of selfishness and cowardice. Now she would have to face the consequences she had brought upon herself. But she would not cower and cringe before him. Always striving for those high and noble ideals that governed her actions, she looked up and met his gaze of sullen ferocity with a look of steady calm that would have softened any temper less fierce and ungovernable than his.

He was moving towards her with a characteristically fluid movement, as though his body – like his soul – was governed by a music that only he could hear. But there was something predatory in that sinuous approach that caused the muscles in her throat to constrict. A moment ago she had wanted nothing more than to talk to him. Now her instincts were telling her to flee.

Stop this, she berated herself sternly. For why should there be fear?

"Awake at last. How are you feeling?" Whatever lay beneath his deceptively soft tone, it wasn't concern.

"Better… I think. I am not so cold anymore." Her physical state meant nothing. What did bodily illness matter when this sickness lay in the soul? But she remembered that he had rescued her, and for that at least, had earned her gratitude. "Thank you," she said quietly. Her sense of confusion increased. Is he my captor or my saviour?

Erik continued to watch her with a dark, implacable look. There was a stillness in the set of his heavy shoulders, the tightly controlled way he held himself far more unnerving than his explosions of violent rage. Christine wondered if he suspected she was about to flee again. But even if she had the energy, would she try? She felt ill and exhausted. She tried to stand and pain lanced through her lower leg. She drew in a sharp breath.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" he said softly.

"Erik –"

"Trust me, I'm quite the connoisseur when it comes to pain, you know. Oh, there are lots of different kinds, I learnt that in Persia. I was very well trained. What you're experiencing now is physical pain; the sharp, surface kind. Then there's the deeper wounds – loss of a hand, a limb. I saw a lot of those. It's strange; you don't even feel it at first. It's almost like a violation it runs so deep. Later, it throbs and burns, beyond anything you could comprehend. I know that pain." His voice was offhand, detached, but there was a burning, wild look in his black eyes that she had not seen since that night… and she knew then that he was angered beyond anything she had ever seen. She clenched her fists, swallowing down her unfolding tension.

"Your hands," he murmured indifferently.

Christine glanced down at her knuckles. They were still bruised and raw from the pounding they had received on the carriage window the preceding night (only last night?) How had she not noticed it before? She slid them beneath the sheets and out of sight.

A blank and pitiless gaze. "You really should be more careful. Otherwise you might really hurt yourself."

An irresistible sense of resignation momentarily overpowered her, making speech difficult. "Erik, I'm sorry." Said aloud, it sounded woefully inadequate. There was more, so much more she could have said. Sorry for fleeing when I discovered the deepest secrets of your soul, sorry for your pain that I cannot alleviate, sorry for the madness of fate that has driven us to this endless despair –

It felt as though a hot iron had run through him. Man and beast within merged and struggled. He could not meet her eyes. All would be lost with him if he did (never again would he crawl before her!) Something inside him – his heart, perhaps – constricted, and it was an effort to say in tones of deep sarcasm, "For what? Trying to run, or the fact that I found you?"

Christine fell briefly silent. She could not believe they had returned to this state. The mocking disdain, the scathing irony. Years of mastering the technique meant that Erik could be cutting with painful precision. Her mind was whirling; both from the cruelty of his words and the fact that the conversation had taken a completely different turn to what she had intended. Her mind tried a vain grasp on reality. "How long was I…?"

"You have been asleep several hours. Why? Reluctant to wake up, were you? Didn't like what you'd be coming back to?" His full lip curled in contempt. "Or perhaps you were just hoping this is all some rather terrible nightmare?"

"I never –"

"If you wanted a nightmare, you should have asked." His voice had become deeply menacing and finally in earnest. "You have no idea how easy you have had it here. Have I not given you food, shelter, clothing, and demanded nothing in return? Do you realise how generous I have been with you up until now? Twice I have had you at my mercy, and have done nothing. I am warning you, Christine, do not make me angry. I can be cruel as well. You know me well enough to be sure of that."

She stood up; the covers fell from her in a brilliant pool of scarlet, billowing round her white skirts like spreading blood. For all her natural serenity and mildness of countenance, she had a sharp temper when provoked. His condition was lamentable, but she was goaded into a sharp reply. "Isn't it cruelty enough that you have held me here against my will and separated me from those I love? I gave you no promise that I would remain here. No – I begged, entreated that you release me, and still you weren't moved. I confess, the deceitful manner of my leaving was beneath me, but what choice did I have when you made it clear that you meant to keep me here, regardless of my wishes? Am I a slave to you? Simply your thing to torment?"

His hand shot out and caught her wrist, closing around the delicate bones with a hold strong as an iron manacle. Hot and hard and vital, that grip seared through her like a brand. That night she had kissed him in this very cellar, he had been cold as the grave, but now she felt as though she would be charred, incinerated within his grasp. God, his touch… She was aware of a flicker of unease – and her pulse leaping beneath his fingers, blood rushing through her body at a fevered rate.

"Don't provoke me, Christine. I don't want excuses. Neither do I appreciate being made a fool of."

She tried to prise her hand away, aware of her nerve endings humming. She could feel the energy emanating from his frame, as though his body could not fully contain the strong force of life that burned within. It was more than she could stand. She would be driven mad by the paralysing intensity of his touches. "When have I ever –"

His hold tightened remorselessly, careless of her efforts to pull herself free of him. "Oh, let me see – yes, I remember now! You have spent the last eighteen hours playing me like a puppeteer. Drawing me to you one moment, pushing me away the next, and letting me hang upon your capriciousness. I am not some toy for you to play with and be discarded at your leisure. I wonder how you dared think it for a moment."

"If that's what you think," she began in a voice that was shaking with anger, "Then I'm –"

"What? Going home? This is your home now, my dear. At least temporarily. Try and make the best of it."

Christine wrenched her hand from his, wanting to place as much distance between them as possible, and looked around despairingly: the dimly lit dwelling, the beautiful instrument, the ornaments, some of which still remained. Longing and remorse struck her heart. This could have been a paradise. And now…

His voice brought her sharply back to reality. "Quite the damsel in distress, aren't we? Well, this is no a fairy tale. There will be no gallant knight galloping to your rescue. Well, a lasso around the neck would rather slow the process, I imagine." He laughed softly. But Christine shuddered at the memory (Raoul desperate and entreating, bound to the portcullis, gazing at her with longing and despair in his dear, strong face –) and looked down, unable to meet the gaze of the man who had caused it all. Tense hands creased the silken fabric of her shift. It slid like water through her fingers.

"You changed my dress."

An elaborate shrug, careless and cruel. "But of course. I hardly wanted you to freeze to death, what do you take me for! Although I do have a perfectly adequate bathroom for your use, but then –" he smiled widely, the sight all the more horrible for its contrast with the immobile porcelain covering his profile – "there is nothing quite so bracing as a refreshing dip in the lake!"

She drew a shuddering breath, refusing to let his taunting remarks rile her. For all she pitied him, he would not succeed in bringing in her down. He was displaying the lowest, most contemptible parts of himself, and her soul rose infinitely above his own. "Enough of this! You have abused me long enough. I understand you must be feeling betrayed, but –"

"Oh, you understand! Well that makes everything alright then, doesn't it?"

"Erik –"

"You really can't see it, can you? You still persist in living in some pretty illusion! I saw that at once. What else could have made you believe I was an angel? You interpret me by what you wish to believe, my poor, naïve child. You want me to be some lost soul in need of redemption. Or perhaps…" He leaned forward, his expression shadowed by menace, "You wanted a dashing villain? I hardly know about dashing, my dear, I'll leave that to your fanciful imagination, but I am a villain. I watched the Opera House burn and laughed. I planned its destruction with a song in my heart. I devised others, endless tortures, with no qualms of conscience. Yes, I laugh at all mankind and the petty passions that they dare to call love, human talk of virtue and vice, religion and iniquity… what is it to me? The power, the intoxicating rush of holding mortality in your bare hands, to wield control over life in a manner unmatched save by God himself... nothing can compare to it. Do you know what it feels like to snap a man's neck and feel the life leaving his body?"

Christine felt a spark of anger ignite inside her, followed by a swift and terrible sense of outrage. What right had he to lecture her on morality? He, who blithely confessed to having none. Was this the man she had pitied so intensely, the man for whom she had wept tears of remorse and prayed to find peace? Was every good intention and charitable thought to be cast back in her face with contempt?

Yes, Erik thought gloatingly as he devoured her with his eyes. Give me your anger, your contempt, your scorn, all your beautiful rage! I am not a selfish man – I do not ask for your love. No, instead I will stir you into a frenzy of hatred that no love can hope to stand against. That at least I can claim belongs to me alone.

"What is it you intend by saying these things? Do you mean to frighten me? Because any fear I had of you died a long time ago."

"Really?" His voice glided over her like dark water; the same sensual, enticing tones that had drawn her to him in Don Juan, and – but she forced down on the memory of that, forced it down so hard her eyes burned – "I am rarely mistaken, my dear, and from what I could tell, you were positively quaking in terror at the mere sight of me! Isn't that what drove you into the arms of your precious Vicomte? So come, tell me! I confess myself rather intrigued. What is it about me that no longer inspires you with such dread?"

"Because I have seen you, as you truly are. And, despite what you would have me believe, this isn't it."

"Are you quite sure about that, Christine? I seem to recall – yes, I believe it was you who told me – that it was my soul that was distorted." She flinched as he venomously threw her own words back at her. He sounded dismissive now, almost bored. "So this persistent charity of yours all seems rather pointless, doesn't it?"

Her nails were digging crescents into her palms. She forced herself to remember the words he had poured into his letters with such anguish and longing… I cannot forget. I cannot. The whole of nature conspires to remind me of your existence. Your image is burned into my mind…

Again, another swift change of mood, so rapid it startled her. Perhaps she had forgotten his volcanic unpredictability of temper. "You wanted to see me as I truly am," he said viciously. He tore at the porcelain mask and flung it passionately across the room. "Then see it! After all, anything you want Christine. That's what I've always done for you, isn't it?"

Christine stood very still. It had been a long time since she had seen his deformity; it seemed she had forgotten how severe it was. Now it was made all the worse by its contrast with the unscarred side of his face and his expression twisted in hellish rage. Raw inflamed skin was exposed to her; flesh hanging in loose folds, pouching below one of the catlike eyes that were narrowed at her in baleful hatred. The intricate working of veins could be seen; the shadowy light heightening hollows and contours among the dun red scars that trickled down in a distorted maze from forehead to jaw line, crimson sharp against the white gleam of bone. Yet the sight of his face no longer brought her any horror. The physical deformities were not what caused her chest to contract into a sullen ache and the words to crumble to ash in the base of her mouth. It was the anguished expression in his dark eyes that both accused and pitied at once, the tears running in glistening paths down his misshapen cheek. Not since the fateful night of Don Juan had he looked at her with such fury and betrayal. His face blurred before her gaze until the two sides merged and became one and the same.

His voice – so beautiful it hurt – now clanged with dissonance, like an instrument that hadn't been properly tuned. "Still in a state of Christian generosity? Still prepared to forgive and forget –"

Erik's tirade halted into speechlessness as with a slow, tentative movement, Christine reached up and tenderly traced the scarred flesh of his face.