The Mask and Mirror
Chapter 21
Darkness had crept into the room, settling over her shoulders in a heavy, enveloping blanket. Yet Christine remained motionless, perched on the hard chair and ignoring the stiffness seeping through her limbs. Her hands twisted in her skirts, skin against soft fabric stained with blood that was not her own. Nausea threatened to take a hold of her then, and she swallowed it down.
Better perhaps if she stopped thinking.
She could feel his breath, warm and soft against the back of her neck, and the skin there prickled in response. It was easy to imagine his heavy figure hovering over her, a darker shadow in the near-blackness of the room. Something brooding and ominous. Something devouring.
She shivered then, and heard him sigh, deep in his throat. "It was too soon; you're still faint. I should have let you rest longer."
God, that voice was beautiful. Even now it was frighteningly easy to forget what he was – what he had done – once she succumbed to the hypnotic spell of those low cadences and softly melodious tones.
"No." In comparison, her own voice sounded cracked and dry and rasping. "It's passed."
But even as she spoke, she had a dim memory of rough sheets beneath her body, of burning fever and harsh Algerian sun.
"Let me see."
Low trepidation heightened into real apprehension when Erik soundlessly moved round to face her properly, leaning over and resting his hands on the arms of her chair so he was looking down at her intently.
Close. Far too close. Christine desperately wanted to move, feeling she would burn in the heat of his orbit. Yet he had effectively trapped her in place and she was unwilling to reach out and lay her hands anywhere on his body, even if it was to make him withdraw. She wondered uneasily if that had been his intention. Erik's face was focused and scrutinising; she could see nothing else.
Conversely, there was something both noble and untamed about him. The heavy hair tossed back from his head revealed a brow of compelling genius, but the powerful jaw and mobile, sensual mouth betrayed the brute possibility of a dangerous, savage creature. Copper threads shone in his dark hair. Christine wondered who his parents had been. She remembered the stories she had read as a child, of gypsies and pirates, and could well imagine the gleam of gold in his ear, the firelight on swarthy skin. She gave an ironic inward smile at her foolishness. Corsairs and thieves were not half so dangerous.
She almost jumped out of her skin as he leaned forward and lifted her chin with one hand.
"What are you doing?"
"Please keep still," he said coolly. "I need to see if you are injured."
He leaned in very close, his dark eyes narrowed. She could hear his slightly ragged breathing, the only sound between the two of them. His fingers were very warm, and despite the rough calluses, she could tell he was trying to be gentle. Christine held herself rigid, willing her pulse to stop racing. He had just used those hands to kill someone, had just washed the blood from them. She struggled to remain calm and focused on her breathing, the air seeming to rattle in her lungs.
Christine heard him hiss an intake of breath as he touched a cut on her lower lip. Pain speared through her mouth.
"Who did this?" Erik demanded, eyes darkening. She could almost taste the leashed anger straining beneath his outward calm.
"It's nothing," she hastened to assure him. For some reason, she was unable to meet his eyes. "I think I did it myself – I was startled."
"The bleeding has stopped." His voice was soft; she felt it stir the tiny hairs along her jaw line. "There is little I can do except wait for the cut to close over. Although perhaps an aloe solution of some kind may help prevent infection."
"Where –" Christine heard her voice catch slightly in her throat, struggling to say something normal, mundane. "Where did you learn about medicine?"
"In Persia," he said. "With so many political assassinations taking place, it was always prudent to have a rudimentary knowledge of antidotes for any poison that might reach the unwary."
"You sound as though you speak from experience."
He didn't say anything. Again, there was that air of self-imposed restraint. Christine shivered at the brooding fire in his dark eyes. Perhaps she was safer not knowing.
His fingers accidentally brushed across her jaw line as he withdrew his hand. She gave an involuntary tremor as images flashed through her brain. An alley, a dagger, a mask, a shirt splashed with blood.
The chair clattered to the floor as Christine lurched unsteadily to her feet. Erik's eyes were on her, but she could not remain here, with him standing so close and touching her with those hands… Without realising it, she had backed away a couple of steps.
With some distance imposed between them, the tension did not diminish. Rather, it seemed to heighten. He was watching her expectantly, like a tiger crouched in the jungle. The unspoken thing between them hung in the air like a dark cloud, growing larger and larger until she could bear it no longer.
"You didn't have to kill him," she said.
The atmosphere between them altered instantly. Christine could picture the moment in two distinct halves: the one of Erik's gentle hands and quiet concern, the other with his entire body charged as though struck by a sudden flare of lightning, eyes alive with malice and a glittering dark anger.
"No?" he said, his mellifluous tones becoming harsher as she recognised the warning signs of his suppressed rage. "Then what would you have had me do?"
"Show some mercy."
"Mercy?" His sudden and jarring laugh was like glass shattering. "Because the world is such a merciful place!"
"He was running away," she told him, determined to keep her voice calm.
"I did it for you. I was protecting you." A note of danger had crept into his voice. "Besides, had you not been wandering so far out, I would not have had to come in and save you from danger!"
Irritation was beginning to rise within her, in spite of herself. "Well, forgive me for wanting a few moments to myself –"
"I told you this place is not safe! You disobeyed me –"
"Disobeyed you?" said Christine, angrily. "I didn't realise you wanted me kept on a leash, Erik!"
Erik's eyes flared. He caught hold of her arm, pulling her towards him until she was pressed against the hard and unyielding weight of his body, the force of his gaze bearing down on her. She was reminded again that he was a man of frightening physical strength. He might dress like a gentleman, but beneath the well-cut jacket and poet's shirt was a fierce and savage stranger who scorned gentility and laughed derisively at social laws. The murderous expression of old had returned, but gone were the days when she would have cowered in a corner or run away. Returning to Erik had reawakened many old emotions. Fear wasn't one of them. Christine tilted her head back, looking up at him unflinchingly.
"Let me go," she said, her voice heavy with contempt.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, breathing hard. She twisted her arm experimentally, but he held her firm. She felt her flesh prickle beneath the burning grip of his fingers. Until that horrifying night of Don Juan, Erik's actions had never been violent or brutish, but instead his seduction had taken on the guise of dark romanticism, playing into her perceptions of him as an alluring and mysterious stranger that was enhanced by his very anonymity. But while Music of the Night dwelt on the soft beauty of love, its sweet yearning and gentle surrender, Don Juan was all about the consuming nature of lust, the raging intensity that ravaged and devoured even as it hungered for more. She shivered. Why was she thinking such things at a time like this?
"You murdered him in cold blood," she continued in a low voice. "You cannot deny it."
His face was dark with vindication, and something else, something almost feral. "I have no intention of denying it. I've murdered for less."
"Why?"
"For many reasons," he said, and Christine thought that beautiful voice was no longer so beautiful when it carried such a tenor of cruelty. "Power, revenge… amusement."
She shuddered against his tense frame and heard him draw a sharp intake of breath. "Why are you being like this?"
"Perhaps it's just the way I was made. I'm sorry if I cannot live up to your impossibly high expectations of me, Christine! Did you fool yourself into believing this was some fairytale?"
She shook her head wildly. "Oh no, Erik, I'm no child anymore. And even if I did try and reconcile myself with fairytales…" She drew a deep breath. "You wouldn't be in them."
Erik's self control – always precarious at the best of times – finally snapped. Christine bit down a gasp as he grasped her shoulders and he leaned down over her. "You wouldn't have said so once," he whispered darkly against her skin. There was that strong scent of leather and incense and the hours of darkness, and a wave of light-headedness overcame her. "In sleep he sang to me… In dreams he came… I haven't forgotten, Christine."
"Then perhaps you should," she responded breathlessly, thinking it must be anger that was causing her heart to pound so fiercely. His closeness was dizzying. "I was a child, Erik."
His eyes, under the fringe of his black lashes, regarded her with a cruel, passionate gleam. "Those were not the words of a child. Neither was the reprise of Don Juan."
Trust him to remind her of that. He would never let her forget that moment of weakness when she had been taken in by his music and foolishly allowed her passions and heightened senses to carry her away. That was something she could never undo, and Erik knew it.
His chest rose and fell with each hard breath. "Would you have preferred me to leave you to your fate?"
"Yes," she said with fierce conviction, surprising them both. "Better that. Better to suffer, and, yes – better to die than to see you degenerate into an unfeeling killer!"
Erik's hands tightened their hold on her upper arms. "So that's how you see me, is it?"
"I never wanted to see you that way," she said, with painful honesty. "You say you want to change. You want me to love you. But how can I when you do things like this?"
Such fury blazed in his eyes and voice that she flinched as though physically struck. "If it was you, I would have kept loving you no matter what you did, no matter what you became!" Some of the violence left his expression then, though the passion remained lurking in his eyes. "And despite what you might think, I do love you, hopelessly."
Yes, his passion for her would endure, like an eternal ember. His gaze was dark and furious, demanding nothing less than her body, heart and soul. In the circle of his arms, she felt trapped as though within a fiery globe, the flames darting out and licking her skin in the places where his hands were upon her. Her senses reeled. She shut her eyes, hard.
"I wish I had never come here," she said, bitterly.
"No you don't," he sneered. "Even if you try to convince yourself otherwise, you don't. You're not sorry, you never were, and if you had the choice you would do it all over again!"
Christine knew he was right. She would have been driven to help him, whatever the cost. Fierce despair rushed through her. How was it that he could penetrate her deepest thoughts with so little effort? How did he so knowingly unlock her darkest secrets and use them as weapons against her? He knew her to the very core, and she hated it. Her hands went to his chest, attempting to push him away, but he did not move. She tried her utmost to ignore the feel of unyielding muscle beneath her fingers, or the fact that she could feel his heart pounding beneath the silken material of his shirt. It seemed incredible that she was the cause of such a response, for how could darkness contain such fire?
"He got what he deserved," Erik said grimly.
"That isn't for you to decide! You cannot just deal out death and judgement when it suits you!"
"And why shouldn't I?" he lashed out.
Christine stared at him. Was his mind really so disturbed that he had no moral code whatsoever? "You really need to ask me that? You cannot even understand why this is wrong, can you? Why this is tearing me up inside?"
He flinched, visibly, and that unguarded reaction gave her something, a flicker, a hope that all was not lost.
"Or perhaps," she said slowly, "You do understand, and that's why this is so painful to you. This isn't about me at all. It's the fact that you can't bear to look at yourself."
Erik made no reaction; only his eyes resembled dark wounds in his face.
"And you think… I can't bear to look at you."
Her heart was pounding in her throat as she slowly drew out the mirror she had bought from the marketplace and held it before him. Erik made no move to take it, but looked down, gazing at it for a long, long time, and his face was concealed in shadow.
"What's this?" he said very quietly.
"It's yours, now."
"Oh, I see." His head snapped up with startling suddenness, and his look thrust into her like a dagger. "A little something to remind me of what I am? Just in case I might forget?"
He tore the mask off his face savagely, and leaned towards her.
"Is this what you wanted to remind me of?"
"Erik –"
"As you can see…" his voice dropped to a savage whisper. "The fires of Hell do not fade so easily, my dear."
She wanted to do something – reach out an entreating hand, perhaps – but before she could say anything, he had turned and strode swiftly from the room. She did not think to go after him; his unexpectedly vicious response had struck her paralysed. Christine heard a door slam somewhere upstairs, and then the terrible sound of an awful, heartbroken moan.
A convulsive wave of despairing horror overcame her; she clung to the back of the chair, leaning over, and she realised she was taking deep, gasping breaths. Her mind struggled to comprehend the shocking scene that had just taken place between them. He had killed a man – and freely, no callously, admitted it. And had done so without showing any remorse whatsoever.
My God – my God –
The feeling of faintness came over her once more, and the room wavered before her eyes. She saw not the furniture, the floor, the window, but the shadowy alley and Erik's savage triumph as he raised a knife stained with blood.
She had seen death before, in the slow, wasting sickness that had consumed her father, but this was brutal murder. And it had happened because of her.
If it was you, Erik had said, I would have kept loving you no matter what you did, no matter what you became.
Christine felt her heart shudder. Was this love? After all, Raoul loved her with all his heart, and there was none of this violence, this heartache. She thought back to the Opera. Where Raoul's love expressed itself in warm and easy affection, Erik's was a wild, fierce passion. Raoul had a rational mind and an affectionate heart. Erik had a poet's soul while his hands dripped blood.
Feeling sickened and drained, Christine groped her way over to the window. Scorching sunlight had given way to a high, cold moon that seemed closer here than it ever had in Paris. The memory of another night, long ago, came back to her. She saw a small attic room, not unlike the one she stood in now, a piercing crystalline moon glittering in a winter sky, and herself kneeling on the floor in speechless agony, weeping with loss and despair.
I can't, she thought hopelessly. I can't do this anymore.
It was too much. All of it. The walls seemed to be pressing in around her. And she was cold suddenly, colder than anything.
An awful feeling was welling up inside her. She tried to discover what it was that was that made her hands shake and her lungs so tight and constricted. Every unsteady breath was inflamed and lacerating, and still this unnameable emotion grew until she thought she would choke on its intensity. Then, in a rush of understanding, it came to her.
It was fear.
Raw and painful, it tugged at her heartstrings; terrible, imminent fear that this responsibility she had assigned herself was something too large for her. Why had she never thought of it before? Had she really believed that a girl of nineteen had any hope of redeeming a soul drenched in blood?
A tear trickled out from beneath her lowered lids. Her mind was frantically working backwards, going over the weeks they had spent together, trying to latch onto something, anything that might tell her it was not already too late.
Had it all been for nothing? The days, the weeks, the months?
The room wavered before her, a hideous blurry sheen.
Did he even want to try?
She did not know what to do at all. Thoughts were running through her head, confused, dizzying, painful. And probing deeper, at the root of it, was the most burning question of all.
Why did she care so much? No one else did. Not Raoul. Not Madame Giry. Not Meg. Why was it her that was feeling this so deeply, so acutely?
In many ways he was her counterpart, yet somehow closer to her than anyone she knew. He also knew her to the core. How was it that he had woven himself into every fibre of her being, embedded himself so deeply she no longer knew where he ended and she began? She had never been able to detach herself where he was concerned. Not that she hadn't tried. Oh, she had run – run so far and so fast she thought she would die – but she had never been able to forget him.
No, she could never forget him. But could she forgive him?
Christine stopped, mid-shuddering breath, and blinked the stinging moisture from her eyes. Through her misted vision, the moonlight speared into many-faceted rays. It was blinding. It was beautiful. It was unbearable pain.
Did she even want to forgive him? For how could she live with forgiving someone who had betrayed her, and might do so again?
She could still walk away. She could decide that she had done enough, and no one would blame her for it. And yet, and yet…
He needs you now, more than he has ever needed anyone in his life, and you would abandon him?
She wavered, agonised with indecision.
How can I forgive him for this?
The answer came to her at once, as though spoken by a power beyond herself.
You will forgive him because you must.
A sudden wave of calm, inexplicable certainty washed over her. Things were different now. He was different. She had – fleetingly – seen him change. She was certain of it. After all, his crimes were not those of a soulless, unfeeling monster. No, his acts were always driven by the most violent of emotions: lust, anger, jealousy and despair. He was the most intensely feeling person she knew. The qualities she knew he possessed – imagination, expressiveness and affection – were the very things he strove to hide because he knew that such emotions left him open and vulnerable. And he was blind to the fact that the one thing he hated – displaying weakness – was the very thing that would bring her closer to him, to awaken her empathy and compassion, and connect to him as a real human being. And, for an instant, she had seen that barrier come down, glimpsed in one unguarded moment the torturing grief lurking beneath the indifferent exterior.
But had she seen it – really? Or was she just seeing what she wanted to see, persuading herself what she wished to be true? She wanted to believe that everything would be alright – but how could she know that? How could anyone?
It did not matter. She saw it all so very clearly now. Her great duty in this world was to save him. But how to bring hope to a nature that was so relentless and implacable, a spirit so lost and fallen? He had spoken like a man in hell, capable of desperation and despair, of abandon and madness, of sin and death. She could well imagine how such a state of despair could turn his love to hate.
There was a deep, ethereal pain in her chest. She was tired; tired of fighting it, tired of pretending she was indifferent to him. There never had been any choice. Not for her. She would always help him, always make sacrifices for him.
And she could only hope that one day he would do the same for her.
Alone, in the wide room with pale moonlight streaming in through the shutters, Christine closed her eyes and clasped her hands together so tightly that her nails dug into the tender flesh. And she prayed – she prayed with all her soul.
Lord, now more than ever I need the courage to do what it is that I must do. And yet I am afraid, Lord. My mortal flesh is weak and cowers before this mission You set before me. Think not that I am strong, that my resolve is infallible. I am so beset by doubts and tremble at Your conviction in me. The weakness of earthly preoccupations is ever in my mind. Raoul, and all my hopes that attach upon him, is a source of constant heartache. If it pleases You that my fate and his are forever sundered in this world, I am comforted by this assurance: that if not in this life, then we will meet again in Paradise. I think of the agonies your Son endured, and pray that it may grant me strength. For I know there is one in greater need of Your help, Your guidance, Your love eternal. I take it upon myself to pray for Erik and I beseech Your pity and compassion. Look upon him with kindness, Lord, and remember all that he has suffered. For I think of his immortal soul and know that I would suffer a thousand deaths if by doing so I might deliver him.
It is enough. I have made my choice. I cast myself entirely upon your mercy.
He lay in unspeakable despair, his mind dark with self-torture. The mindless haze of anger had passed, and had left only a deep ache of bitterness and grief in the black, empty space where his soul had once resided. Erik pressed his throbbing head against his hands. His temples were aflame with infernal pain. He wanted to sit here forever. He wanted to die.
How long had he been crouched in this cursed state, how many hours of continuous horror? He was in torment, consumed in a fire of his own making.
Erik had never felt so wretched in his life, not even when Christine had betrayed him in Don Juan or left him at the banks of the lake to pursue her life with Raoul. In the latter, Erik had experienced the bleak satisfaction of self-sacrifice that carried a curious sense of peace even in the midst of despair. Her betrayal in Don Juan had almost destroyed him, but it had come about because she loved someone else – that was something outside his control, that he could have done nothing to change.
But this… Nothing could be worse than knowing he had driven her away through his own actions, that in hurting, he had desired to hurt someone else, and had savagely turned on her. That was worse, far worse than sorrow or physical agony or the destruction of hope, because it was self-inflicted. He had lost that last, fragile glow of hope that had burning within him, warming him with its elusive rays. He wanted her so much he had ended up crushing her through the intensity of his love. From purity to perversion. He kept seeing it over and over in his head, the expression in her eyes – the agony and betrayal.
But even that wasn't fully the source of this crippling pain within his chest. The man – the man – God Almighty, would the image of that face ever be erased from his soul? Would the memory of spilled blood ever fade from being burnt into his memory? The ghosts of past sins were stirring in his soul, haunting him. God, so many people, so many deaths. I remember them all –
At that moment, he even envied the crucified Jesus. Had he the opportunity, he would willingly embrace such martyrdom, would have flung himself upon the cross and spear, spread open his hands to accept the nails being driven into his penitent flesh. But no. Such was not for him. Going on living was the real martyrdom, denied the peace and fulfilment of death. Death was a goal. Death was rest. And to die a martyr... surely that was the ultimate ecstasy in agony. To be purged by the sword and fire, by tears and blood.
But such forgiveness was not for him. He had renounced that chance the moment he had pierced steel through another man's heart and watched as his body fell to the ground, the life's blood welling from his breast. And he, his murderer, stood by and did nothing, only smiled at the man's death as the blood dried on his hands.
I have denied myself the means to my own salvation.
Oh, what use were vain words? What use were these frenzied thoughts?
He clenched his hands into fists, his thoughts spiralling out of control as he wondered what he could have done, what could have been different –
In that moment – with the knife in my hand – it should have been me. I should have brought it down upon myself and ended it in that moment.
Erik closed his eyes, and his mind reeled as he imagined plunging the blade into his own heart, the agonising completeness of sensation, his last sight in this world that of Christine, her dark eyes wide with grief and horror as she knelt over him, clasping him in her arms.
Someone was weeping. It was only then Erik realised it was himself. Furiously, he dashed the tears from his eyes, pressing the mask back against his lacerated face, wincing at the pain while welcoming it.
He had never felt like this before. In the past, he had always drawn a web of self-sufficiency around himself that had protected him against the world. After all, Lucifer taught that to make the mind its own centre, to shape one's own destiny, was power supreme. Erik had lived under that infernal instruction for longer than he could remember, directing his own ends, allowing no man or force to stand in the way of his desires. And he could do it again. He could give in without guilt and indulge in the actions he had so often in the past.
But he had changed. Something inside him had subtly altered without his realising it. Erik was different, and he didn't think he liked it.
He was aware of her presence long before he looked up. He heard the sound of a door opening, the slither of her gown against the wooden flooring, and the gentle hitch of her breathing.
"Erik," she said, her soft whisper ghosting the space between them.
He didn't move. How could he look at her after this? How could he look at anyone? "I thought you would have run far away by now."
"I'm tired of running," she said. "I'm tired of fighting. What just happened… I've been going over and over it in my head. And I think I understand at last. It wasn't me you were angry at. Was it?"
He was silent.
"Erik. Talk to me. If you want me to listen, talk to me."
This was the difficult part. And it was difficult. So difficult he did not think he could find the words to express it. Because if he told her then it would be real. It would have really happened. Erik's mind picked over the words in his head, each one like a piece of shattered glass driving deeper into his skin, but a part of him welcomed the clarity of pain, knew he deserved it. He stared down at his hands, finally confronting the hard and painful truth.
"I killed him," he said slowly. "I watched his blood run over my hands. And it burned." His voice was softly reflective. "I had forgotten there was so much blood."
He could feel her watching him in silence. It was the most curious silence he had ever experienced; there was no anger, no judgment. Only deep and heartfelt emotion. An intense ache smote his being and he tried to still the shuddering convulsions of his heart. Sudden warmth stole through his fingers, and he looked down, startled to see Christine's hand resting against his own. The ever-so-slight contact sent ripples of sensation spiralling outward across his nerves, slowly restoring heat to the rest of him that was so very, very cold. It gave him the strength to go on.
"I know what you're thinking. Death is death, however you administer it. But it's not. I've killed men before… but this was different. I spent so many years doing it at a distance, viewing them locked away in torture chambers or a lasso around the neck – quick, clean, no blood. This – this was something else. Closer. Personal. I felt his very blood weeping from his chest – I did that. And it felt as though I lost a piece of my soul doing it. I hadn't used a knife on a man since – since the first time – the very first." He broke off for a moment, and shivered. Her fingers threaded through his. "And I'm feeling – feeling –"
"Guilt," she said quietly.
His hand jerked convulsively within hers. "I think so."
"You see, Erik." The soft conviction in her voice was almost an agony to hear. "A person can change."
"This isn't me," he muttered. For reasons he could not fathom, it was suddenly very important to hold on to this.
"Or perhaps it is you. At last."
Erik pulled away, fighting down the urge to shake her. For some reason, her quiet composure infuriated him. His voice came out coarse and rough. "No. This… it's wrong. I'm wrong."
"Erik, no –"
"I'm not meant to feel this way." He had turned pale with anger.
"What way?" she demanded, sudden ire flashing in her eyes. "Human?"
"No!" he shouted finally, the stormy emotions spilling from him like water from a breached dam. His chest seemed to be caving in on itself. "Guilty! Why should I have to feel guilty and endure speechless agonies when all those people who hurt me can go on living without remorse? Do you think they ever stop to regret what they did and wonder if I suffered? Do you suppose they even think about it at all? Of course they don't. If they can overlook such cruelty, then so can I. So do not waste your time pitying me," he hissed through gritted teeth. "I can overcome this. I will overcome it."
"You cannot just bury your feelings –" Christine began to say, but he cut her off.
"Why not?" Honesty made him ruthless. "I did before." He swallowed hard, staring at her vindictively. "The people I destroyed… they didn't mean anything. Not to me. I spent years doing everything in my power to separate myself from those things that were human, no matter how much cruelty I had to summon. If I could detach myself from everything, the more wicked the better; then I would be truly free. And I succeeded, better than I could ever have hoped to imagine. I was separate."
"Why?" Her voice came out an accusing wail. "What could possibly make you so willing to be that horribly alone, to prevent yourself from loving or feeling anything? Why would you do that? To yourself? To me?"
"Isn't it obvious, Christine?" he bit out in frustration. "Because it was easy. Because it meant I didn't have to face up to the things I had done. None of it mattered because I wasn't really there. I might not have been happy, but I wasn't miserable either." He smiled, faintly. "I was beyond that. I was untouchable. I was immune."
"Immune?" Her voice shuddered with anger.
Erik saw the painful flash in her eyes, and a sudden tight, constricting feeling gripped his throat. Cold despair was beginning to eat away at the edges of passion and fury. "It was never the same after you came. You did something to me. Made me weak. Everything changed after that. And suddenly, I wasn't untouchable anymore. You took that from me. Just like you stripped me of everything else. And now what I've done… I feel all of it. Every hour, every day, it stays with me." He turned away from her. "And it's killing me."
"Good," said Christine.
The flat severity of her tone made him wince. "Good?"
Her voice softened slightly although her face was still tense and taut in the darkness of the room. "It's a blessing, Erik. To be able to feel. To know, truly know, that you have a soul and a conscience striving for your redemption. You may not think so, but I believe it's worth suffering guilt to know that."
Erik staggered away from her, half-blindly. He couldn't listen to this. What she said was something he could not imagine, could not dare to even comprehend –
Redemption.
The one word seemed to grow between them, something huge and changing. Something life altering and forever.
A terrible emotion was welling up inside him, threatening to engulf him. He dropped into a chair, pressing his burning temples into the heels of his hands. He wanted to escape the suffocating thoughts in his head, the endless clamouring voices that would not cease tormenting him about the things he had done. Awful things. Unforgivable things.
Irredeemable.
His voice was low and rasping; it felt as though his tongue had been incinerated. "If this is what it means to be human – I don't want it. I want it to stop. Oh God, I want it to stop –"
"Do you?" she asked, quietly.
He held himself tightly together, aware of a bleak and tearing sense of anguish. "I never cared before. Not like this. I feel –" he stumbled over the words, "I feel like… like I should be punished."
Condemned to destruction – damnation –
"In many ways, guilt is its own punishment."
"It's not enough," he responded with a terrible conviction, overcome with resignation. Jagged thorns seemed to be slicing through his heart. "I've killed so many people, Christine. I remember them all. If there was justice in this world, I would be punished. I should be punished." Pain closed over him, a dark, suffocating wave.
"I cannot grant you absolution, Erik," she whispered. Startled, his eyes flew up to Christine's sorrowful face. Her lips were pressed tightly together and it looked as though she was concentrating everything she had on not crying. "I want to help you, desperately, but only a priest has that kind of power. I told you once that you should think of going to Confession."
He shook his head in a kind of absent wonder. "I can't," he said. "I can't."
"Why?" she demanded, tearfully.
"Because that would make it too easy. If I'm suffering, I deserve it."
"No."
"Christine." A hint of scorn had crept into his voice. "I thought you valued honesty. You know it's true."
Her face was wrung with pain. She shook her head fiercely, but said nothing.
They were silent for a while. Erik looked away from her, hurting beyond understanding. It was easier when he couldn't see her face. He didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes. His head sank into his hands, and he sat there, still and motionless until his head ached and white lights burned his inner lids. He felt imprisoned, tormented by what he had done, yet unable to assuage his guilt by accepting the forgiveness he knew he did not deserve. Where had these feelings come from? Why would they not just leave him? Leave him to remain alone, alone…
In Hell.
The silence was deathly. He wondered if Christine had left him. He could not bring himself to look, fearing she was gone, fearing she had stayed. What other inmost secrets could she so innocently compel him to spill before her? For all his strength, he was completely defenceless against her. He thought pain was supposed to make you stronger, not weaker. So why wasn't he strong?
His throat was hoarse. "Taking life… it was the only power I ever had."
Her calm voice startled him; only then did he realise he had spoken aloud.
"You have power, Erik."
He opened his eyes. She had not moved from her position several feet away, her slender figure silhouetted by the moonlight that did not reach him.
He gave a bitter laugh at her assertion. "Mere fantasies. Illusions. I never had any power. Not really."
"I don't believe that. You have the ability to create things of unimaginable beauty, to walk in worlds the rest of us can only dream of. Erik, when I listen to your music, I sometimes think you must be closer to God than anyone –"
She broke off, her voice audibly trembling. For some moments, Erik found it hard to breathe. He stared unseeingly at the wooden floorboards. He wanted very much to look at her but he could not. He could not. When at last she spoke, he shuddered violently.
"You might be willing to give up on yourself, but I'm not willing to give up on you."
Several answers rose to Erik's mind: cruel, angry, defensive. But she had already gone beyond pain where he was concerned. Nothing he said could hurt her more than what he had already done today. The knowledge filled him with bitterness. His voice was weary with resignation. "Maybe you're too close to see things objectively."
"What this is – it has nothing to do with me, or what I feel. None of that matters."
"Then why?"
"Because I believe you're worth saving."
He stared at her. "You must be the only person in the world who thinks so."
"That doesn't make it any less true." In a single motion she dropped to her knees, raising her head to look at him in the eyes. "Erik, listen to me. I saw you in those cellars give up your own prospect of happiness to set me free, I see you now with a man's blood fresh on your hands and able to confront the gravity of what you did and feel real remorse. You might not understand what that means, but I do."
Erik swallowed hard, unable to bring himself to believe in her words. "It doesn't make any difference. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't change what I did to you – none of it. Do you know the kind of things I imagined doing to you while you were innocently taking singing lessons from me? The things I was going to do when you blindly followed me underground?"
"But you didn't. You wouldn't."
"But I wanted to!" he cried, despairingly. "You are so naïve, Christine! God, if you knew half of what I was capable of, that even now, a part of me still wants to –"
"And you're fighting it. The better man – the man I know you want to be – is fighting it. Even back in the Opera House, that conscience, that goodness in you held you back and let me sleep without harm."
"You think just because I didn't throw you down and ravish you that I'm not an evil man? I may not have violated you physically, but your mind – I managed to destroy that rather efficiently."
"Look at me, Erik. Do I look like a hollow, broken shell to you?"
Hesitantly, he raised his eyes to the quiet, serious girl kneeling in front of him. The pale moonlight touched her around the edges before blurring away into shrouded shadows. Her face reminded him of paintings he had seen of the Blessed Virgin: the beauty, the purity, the grave quiet strength. He saw the light of love shining in her dark eyes – not love for him, but for someone else she saw. Someone better. He closed his eyes, willing his voice to remain even.
"You left behind a fiancée and a life of peace and happiness to follow me to this place. It looks as though I was able to break you somehow."
"Erik," she said. Her gaze was both intense and searching. "Tell me truthfully. Why do you really think I'm here?"
"Because I was weak. Because I was too selfish to let you go."
"No," she said. "Not for any of those reasons. I'm here not because you tied me up and forced me here, not because you threatened the lives of the people I love… I'm here because I choose to be here. Because I know you can be a good man. And more than that, you want to be. I've seen it. I'm seeing it now." Her expression pierced his heart. "I cannot give you any promises or guarantees. Nothing is certain in this world. But I tell you this: there is good in you, Erik, and nothing in Heaven or Earth, in this life or the life hereafter will ever persuade me otherwise."
Erik couldn't breathe. The deep ache of anguish and hopelessness in his chest tightened, beyond agony, beyond endurance. He reached out blindly, wanting to touch her, to tell himself that she was real. Christine drew a shuddering breath but did not move, only blinked away tears, her dark lashes beaded with water. His hands tightened on her shoulders. "You mean that… you really mean it?"
Her upturned gaze never left his. "Every word."
Erik stared at her as she knelt before him, kissed by the peaceful illumination of pale light haloing her figure. His vision blurred with tears and his throat burned with the pain of suppressing them. Surely this girl was an angel sent to him by God, a living testimony that purity and goodness could still be found in this cruel, dark world. His heart was wrung with pain. Oh, how he needed her, Christine, with her ardent, compassionate heart and soul of pure white fire. She was his salvation.
How was it she stayed with him? How had he earned that right? He deserved no reprieve or easy solutions. He wanted forgiveness for what he had done, even though he knew he was not worthy of it. He simply wanted all the agony to end – he wanted his guilt over his destructive nature to be put to rest.
"I once dreamed of you forgiving me," he said slowly. "At least, I think they were dreams."
Christine, on her knees on the floor, felt the trembling tension of his hands on her shoulders and felt emotion rising within her like a flood. She struggled to keep her voice steady. "Perhaps before I can forgive you, you need to forgive yourself."
"Forgive myself?" he echoed, with a bitter laugh. "Nothing so easy. Not when you've seen the things I've seen, done the things I've done… Do you have any idea of what it's like to truly hate yourself, Christine? No, of course you don't. How could you? You have nothing to repent, you should never be sorry –"
Christine could not speak. His eyes flashed on hers, fierce and entreating, and she thought her heart would break. She closed her eyes. Erik, oh Erik.
His unrequited love for her combined with the agonising sorrow over his past sins made her want to fall weeping at his feet. Unbidden, words rose to her mind. I have always held you in my heart. I will never, never doubt you again. Let me share your wounds. My angel, my dear hope.
His expression of desperate yearning was awful and heart-rending in its transparency, like shattered glass, like a mirror –
A rush of conviction swept over her. Unthinking, her cold hands reached into the folds of her gown until they closed around something sharp and hard. When she did speak, she was startled at the calmness of her tone.
"I want you to have this back. It's yours."
In her palm rested the mirror she had offered him earlier.
Erik said nothing. He despised mirrors; hating the face they contained staring back at him. Who would want to be reminded of that? Why would Christine possibly want to remind him of that? Was it not enough to know that she loved another without adding further salt to the wound? Yet when he looked at her face, sad yet calm, the remorse came back in full force. This was Christine. Hopeful and self-sacrificing and so very innocent. There was no motive of bitterness or any sense of mocking satisfaction to be derived from her actions. So he accepted the gesture for what it was; an offering of peace, of goodwill. Hesitantly, he took the mirror from her, staring hard at the smooth surface that reflected the dim lamplight, sending out brilliant arcs of light. It blinded him.
"I think you misunderstood what I meant when I offered it to you." Christine's soft voice reopened those old wounds, the rejection of her compassion.
Erik got to his feet, tall and commanding and imposing once more. "My behaviour was boorish and ungrateful," he said harshly. "I do not wish to dwell on it."
Christine raised her eyebrows a fraction. That was the closest Erik had ever come to an apology.
She gathered her skirts together, standing up and joining him where he stood in the centre of the room. No longer in shadow, she could see where the light highlighted the severe edges of his porcelain mask. Yet it was the exposed half of his face that drew her gaze. No longer the savage and cruel murderer, his expression was lit with thought and emotion, and… peace. For the time, peace. This was the angel who composed divine music, the poet who poured out his soul's longing in beautiful language, the man who was speechless with agony at the thought of his guilt, and trembling to hope at the chance of his redemption.
Erik could feel her watching him, and wanted to say something. But where to even begin? He had no words to express what she had given him tonight: hope, in the depths of darkness. She must know it, anyway. She must understand what was unsaid. Turning the mirror over and over in his hands, his mind struggled to comprehend why it was she had not left him, he who had given her so much cause to.
"Why are you so good to me?" The words left him in a confused rush.
"I thought I already told you," she said, her voice very soft.
"Christine…" He drew a deep breath. "I want to ask you something."
She looked at him, eyes wide and inquiring.
"If my face had been perfect… would you have loved me?"
He felt his heart beating the silence, the seconds.
"I don't know," she said.
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