The Mask and Mirror
So we move
We change by the speed of the choices that we make
And the barriers are all self-made
That's so retrograde
Are you drowning or waving?
I just need you to save me
Should we try to get along?
Just try to get along
(Bush – Out of this World)
Chapter 22
Things subtly changed between them after that. Erik could not say how exactly, but there was definitely something altered. Even though they had not spoken of it, the remembrance was ever-present whenever they were together. He glimpsed a new tenderness in Christine's eyes when she looked at him, a certain sympathy that had never been present before. And this after she had seen a man's blood on his hands. After he had lied to her. After he had taken her by force. After he had threatened the lives of those she loved. In spite of how uncertain and difficult and confused everything was between them, there was one thing Erik knew with a brilliant clarity.
She was the closest thing to an angel he would find on this earth.
Yes, she was something rare and precious in this nineteenth-century Sodom, untouched by the uninhibited abandon and immorality that was rife outside these shuttered windows. Free and untainted by any shadows or the dark memory of sins that could never be washed away in this life, perhaps not even the next. He longed only to be near her, to breathe the same air she breathed, to lay his hands on the objects she touched, as though by doing so, he might take into himself some of that purity and harmony that she was blessed enough to experience so unconsciously. Just to be in her presence was enough. His feelings for her had transcended bodily desires.
At least, so he thought.
Until he awoke one night, his body shuddering still, the sweat cooling on his skin as he waited for his breathing to slow. He opened his eyes. The night was unbearably hot and muggy, doing little to ease his agitated mind and body. Erik rolled over in the narrow bed and pressed his face into the pillow, inhaling the starch and faded amber smell, the fabric coarse and rough against his unmasked face. The thin blanket – it was too hot to sleep under anything else – was tangled around his legs. Further discomfort to inflamed skin already acutely aware of every sensation. Erik did not need a lot of sleep, but he did not appreciate having the few hours he did snatch becoming new bouts of mental and physical torment.
He had dreamed again of Christine, or rather him and Christine together… in every sense. The very thought of her consumed him. Erik rubbed a hand across his eyes but the memories persisted: the sheets rumpled beneath them, Christine kissing him willingly, hungrily, their bodies wound together in shameless ecstasy… He suppressed a groan. An impossible dream.
But why is it impossible?
That inner voice tempted him to abandon, to sin. His mind verged on madness at the possibility. It would be so easy…
He knew Christine did not lock her door at night – the frequent times he had met her in the hall coming out of her bedroom confirmed that fact – unbelievable as it was, incomprehensible as it was, she trusted him. Trusted, at least, that he would never violate the sanctity of her privacy or virtue. There would be no physical barrier to stop him if he desired to go to her. He could imagine it now; entering her private room, Christine rising in the bed dressed only in a silken nightgown, her hair in beautiful disarray. A couple of steps and he could cross the room, cover her body with his and tear the flimsy nightgown from her and take her in an instant. His body shuddered in agonised longing at the prospect.
But Christine was worth more than that. She was not some shallow opera wench to be used and forgotten. She was worth time, and patience. He knew this; the poet, the musician, the lover of beauty worshipped her with a holy reverence he had never afforded to any divinity. But the primitive, the man, the conquistador craved her; she was a constant hunger in the blood.
He wondered if she would be so willing to think highly of him if she knew the secret thoughts that burned within him. Would she recoil in loathing and disgust? Or would the heated blood rush to her face as she dared contemplate what he would do to her, the things he could make her feel…
Or not. After all, he was pursuing a woman who loved another.
Another!
Erik sat bolt upright, seething anger coursing through his body like an electric current.
De Chagny was nothing but a callow boy, an aristocratic dandy who knew nothing of love beyond mere youthful infatuation. It could not compare to the full-blooded passion Erik harboured for Christine; the ardour borne from his more advanced years – oh, how he would worship her if she would only let him, instead of wasting her heart on one who could never appreciate its worth. His heart burned fiercely within him. De Chagny! Would the man's cursed shadow ever be between them?
"You still hate it, don't you?" she had said one day when the name had dropped from her lips.
"Hate what?"
"My saying his name."
"Yes," he said, simply, and that was that.
The sheet still wrapped around his lower body, Erik glanced across the room. The windows were already thrown wide open, the now-familiar thrum and beat of the Kasbah sounding in the heavy night air. Dance, ritual, shadows. Drums rolling through the ground like thunder. Flickering lights were visible through the inadequate strip of fabric that served as a curtain, promising magic, madness, passion. All there for the taking. Except from the one he most wanted it from.
Erik fell back against the bed, the dancing pinpricks of light still visible against his closed lids. In the cloying nocturnal heat and heavy scents of incense, the room seemed to spin beneath him, a gravitating orbit centred around his bed. Waking dreams and longing imaginings unfolded in his consciousness, silken and seductive and elusive as the girls in the street that peered through their veils, revealing so little yet promising so much. Girls who could almost be Christine with their dark eyes and tendrils of dark hair escaping from their shawled restraints. In this witching hour of semi-darkness and illusion, he could imagine anything was possible.
He closed his eyes against the image of Christine sleeping peacefully in the next room.
There would be no sleep for him tonight.
For Christine, the cathartic outpouring of emotion was still too bewildering to think too closely over. Something simple yet so complicated. Like his music, it touched her in a way she could not understand, that words were not capable of expressing. What had happened between them was so shattering, so awful and wonderful yet heart-breaking, that everything else seemed to pale in comparison. After the sameness and day-to-day routine of the last few months, that supreme moment of confession was bigger than anything. And it terrified her.
She realised now that this imposed isolation, him being the only person she encountered every day, was affecting her. Healthy or not, he was becoming her whole world, always in her thoughts even when he wasn't there in person. It was dangerous, she knew, to let this continue, but she saw no way of making it otherwise. It was the price she would have to pay for helping him. And she was helping him. That was beyond all doubt. Recently, she had glimpsed him staring at her with unspeakable gratitude and tremulous hope when he thought she was not looking. However stern and sarcastic and domineering he might be generally, those rare moments were what she clung to, something that no mask could ever hide.
Yet she was not completely naïve. She had had her illusions shattered too many times to think that things were now completely well between them. She could not help but wonder when this temporary peace between them would come to an end.
As it turned out, she did not have long to wait.
They were packing to move into new lodgings. This new development was both a relief and a secret source of anxiety. Although used to modest accommodation, Christine had never liked the boarding house with its dust, the constant noise from outside. The thought of relocating to somewhere more peaceful, with spaces and gardens that would allow for dreams, for meditative silences, filled her with longing. But the thought of going with Erik to the middle of nowhere was a distinctly unsettling one. At least in the Opera House, she could escape aboveground, to the bustle and routine of rehearsals and the company of the other ballet rats. Where could she retreat to here?
Christine looked around the small sitting room lit by the scorching afternoon sun. Half filled packing crates were piled haphazardly in the middle of the floor. Heat drifted visibly in the air, a hazy somnolence. Even the noise of the market outside seemed to hold a kind of languorous, lethargic quality. That middle afternoon lull. She felt it herself today. The exertion of packing and running up and down stairs had caused perspiration to bead along the back of her neck. She leaned forward and lifted her heavy curls, dabbing at the flushed skin with a cloth until she saw Erik watching the movement with a fixed, almost mesmerised intensity. She let her hair fall down at once. He shook his head slightly, as though to clear it.
"I was looking for the paperwork," he said coolly. "Some bills. I believe I left it in my coat."
"I'll get it," she said at once, glad for an excuse to move. "Where is it?"
"It should be in one of the pockets," he said carelessly.
She went over to where his greatcoat was draped over the back of one of the chairs. Her fingers brushed against paper in the breast pocket and she pulled it out, unfolding it slowly.
"Is this it?"
It was not what she had been looking for after all, but an empty envelope, addressed to –
M. le Vicomte de Chagny. Astonishment rooted her to the spot. What was Raoul's address doing in Erik's pocket? Christine stared, feeling her heart catch in her throat.
It was writing, her writing. From months ago…
Beneath the cellars of the Opera, the long, despairing night and the winter cold searing my bones –
She looked up at Erik, her eyes wide and wondering. "But this is… I wrote this to Raoul… and you…" Her voice trailed off. There was no movement or expression behind the black mask. He was standing very still, broad shoulders slightly bowed beneath black leather. An avenging angel.
"Erik…" she said very slowly. "You did… give him the letter? Didn't you, Erik? Tell me you did!"
He didn't say anything.
She found herself moving backwards. "Oh my God," she said.
"Christine –" he began sternly.
"You lied to me!"
He turned away from her, but not before she saw his eyes: cold and hard, glittering like polished black stone pulled from the depths of the earth. There was no remorse in there, no satisfaction, nothing. He shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Everyone lies, Christine. It's the reason for lying that matters."
"And what possible reason could you have for this? I didn't tell him anything about where I was or where you were taking me – I told him nothing!"
"Except that you still cared!" he shouted, at last aroused to real anger. "How do think I felt being the carrier of a letter that shattered all my hopes? Did you really expect me to send it, to give him one more thing I don't have?"
"What you don't have?" she echoed in disbelief. "You have everything and act as though it's nothing! I have given up my life in the hope I might be able to help you, and for what? For this?" She turned away, appalled.
Erik moved quickly towards her and spun her round to face him; warm hands sliding up her bare arms. She stared at him in shock. The envelope drifted unheeded to the floor. When had he started touching her of his own accord? When had she allowed him to? But this wasn't tenderness or affection. This was pain and fury and madness and endless falling. He was looking at her as though he loathed her, a wild expression in his dark eyes. "What right have you to judge me – when this is all your fault?"
"My fault? How can you say –?"
"You were supposed to help me!" he exploded. "Your whole reason for being here was to help me become a better person, to fix me, but you're the very thing that drives me into sin! I thought you were my salvation and find instead that you are my Eve!"
"You were never supposed to read that letter!" cried Christine.
Erik's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I see," he hissed in her ear, voice all silken fury. She shivered. "So you thought you'd break my heart without having the courtesy of telling me yourself? That so long as I didn't know you were prolonging my agony, that would somehow make it alright? Oh, it's only poor, pitiful Erik, he doesn't need to know that he's about to have his heart ripped out of his chest!"
She tried to pull away, but the movement merely brought her into closer contact with his body. Why is it, she thought wildly, That whenever we argue, we come to be so close? Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears. "Well, how do you think Raoul feels? It was hard enough leaving him but now – oh God – he doesn't even know where I am. He doesn't even know I still care for him. He has no idea –"
Erik smiled, a low poisonous smile, as a bloated spider might on discovering some innocent prey having become entangled in its web. "Well, it'll be a test of the endurance of his ardour, won't it? Look on it as an opportunity, Christine."
She could not believe they were here again. Had she been naïve, to think that he could change so quickly? She knew what he was, all the things he had done. So why was she feeling so betrayed? Had she really convinced herself he was different now? She sucked in a breath, clenching her fists as she fought down the awareness of his warm hands curled around her shoulders in a fierce and unrelenting hold. "You claim you would do anything for me – but only when it suits you, it seems. That isn't love. That's control. Do you really want to be loved, Erik? Or do you just want something you can use and have power over? Did you prefer it when I was merely some automaton bowing down to your wishes?"
"You know that isn't true," he flashed.
"Do I? How can I trust anything you say now?"
For a moment he was silent, then it was as though shutters came down, abruptly quelling the fire that had galvanised him into anger. The anger remained, but it was a cold and glittering fury that manifested itself in the chillingly impassive expression on his face. "I see," he said, in an emotionless tone. "Trust. Just as you were so trustworthy in betraying me before the entire Opera House."
"You drove me to it!" She felt ashamed of the words the moment she uttered them.
"Ah." He sneered derisively. "So hatred makes it justifiable. But love doesn't?"
"I think we've both agreed that our definitions of love are relative," she said, more cruelly than she intended.
She shivered as Erik hissed through his teeth, his breath hot against her face. Unwillingly, she remembered that first night she had seen him beneath the cellars of the Opera, his hands moving in a slow and sensual caress over her body, his voice slumberous with barely suppressed passion and desire –
Christine jerked back – or tried to – his hold on her shoulders was like a vice, ten points of fire against her skin. A rush of anger swept through her. Wasn't it enough that he had possessed her mind; must he invade her body too?
"Why are you doing this?" she asked hoarsely.
The reply was swift and expected. "Because I love you."
"But not enough to let me go, Erik!"
"You will love me," he said fiercely. "Wouldn't I do anything for you? Wouldn't I die for you? I cannot abide shallow platonic affection, Christine – it is all or nothing. You knew that when you agreed to come with me – you must have known!"
"How can you talk to me like this? You know I am engaged to another man. It is selfish – no, more than selfish – downright blasphemous. It goes against the sacred union of man and wife in the eyes of God –"
"You are not married yet, Christine."
"I would be had you not come back into my life."
There was too much truth in what she said for him to deny it. He drew a sharp breath; she could feel the muscled tension in his chest beneath the pearly shirt as he inhaled, silk on marble. The heat was incinerating her, slowly drowning her in the enveloping scents of leather and incense and intoxicating darkness. She suddenly thought of Raoul's cool sea-blue eyes, the gentleness of his arms as he held her, the comforting kindness in his voice.
"I just want to see him," she said, her voice thin. "That's all. I just want to know that he's alright."
Erik was glaring at her with five kinds of Hell in his eyes. "And you don't care whether I'm alright?"
Her eyes blazed. "Of course I care."
Erik did not seem to be listening. He was looking at her meditatively, his voice softer now, and reflective, which was somehow worse than when he had been shouting. "I could kill him, put my hands around his neck and crush the life from his worthless body, but it still wouldn't make you forget, would it? It would only make you hate me, if you didn't already."
Her silence was answer enough. She could not meet his longing gaze that was fierce, intense, painful. "Yet why," he continued, "Do I still feel like I would rather be hated by you, than loved by anybody else?"
Christine could hear the breathing in her own ears, thick and heavy. The endless black of his mask hovered above her, and there was only the blackness and the scorching fire of his hands that seemed to burn through silk onto her bare skin. The world seemed to tilt unsteadily. She could not think with him standing so close –
"Release your hold on me," she ordered quietly.
His voice was harsh with passion. "Only when you release your hold over me."
Oh God, why did this have to be so hard? "I know you cannot help loving me, Erik. It would be unfair to condemn you for that. But you can determine what you do about it – and it seems you continue to behave selfishly."
He did let her go then, much to her relief. She moved away, needing space to breathe, to still the suffocating palpitations of her heart. Erik's dark silhouette blocked the sun, like an eclipse. He burned her eyes.
He was looking at her, she thought, rather like a cat might look at a mouse before killing it. "Do you know what it's like wanting the one thing you can never have?"
But she thought there was more fury than love in his gaze, a raw, jealous need. She was overcome by a savage urge to pull that hateful black mask away, to really see him, face to face –
"I know you've had a hard life. But that does not give you license to act cruelly, without regard to others."
The effect of her words was startling; he looked as though she had struck him. "You dare to accuse me of cruelty? After everything you've done to me? I should hate you for causing me so much pain, for what you've reduced me to… yet I can't. Even now, I wouldn't renounce it if given the chance. Does it satisfy you to know that, Christine? That I'm your willing prisoner?"
"You think this gives me satisfaction?"
"You have the ability to elevate or destroy me with a mere word or a look. Not many people possess such power."
"I don't want it, I never wanted it – I never wanted any of this –" The words tumbled out of her, frantic, near gasping. Why couldn't she just walk away? "I'm a prisoner just as much as you are, Erik –"
Without even thinking of what she was doing, her hands came up, pushing at his chest in helpless fury. His heart seemed to leap beneath her fingers in response, his fierce, furious heart that had been the start of all this –
His scorn and anger blazed. "Do you really think you can hurt me?"
Her hands fell away, dropping limply to her sides. Was this how it would always be between them now? The moments of divine hope and understanding marred by the lies, the arguments and the bitterness?
Her mind cast itself back to that night in Erik's room, her kneeling at his feet in desperate agony as he stared down at her half-blinded by grief and remorse. I must remember this, I must remember…
"Even after everything you've done – you're still a man. Still flesh and blood. And that means I can still get through to you. And that I still have a chance to save you."
Beneath the mask he was smiling, but not pleasantly. "And what makes you think I need saving? I am what I am. Perhaps I have no secret longing to be saved from myself."
"I think we both know that isn't true."
Then the fire in him seemed to die. Christine watched the almost static energy that trembled through his body wither away until he seemed nothing more than a hollow shell.
"What have you done to me?" he asked, his voice haggard with despair.
A moment ago he had been alive and intense with malice and fierce hatred. Now she looked into his dark, empty eyes, and was overcome by an intense feeling of pity. "I said it to you before – you can be a good man, Erik."
"You really believe that, do you?"
"I have to," she said.
He gave a dark, bitter laugh. "Have you ever asked yourself why it matters to you so much?"
"I've never denied you matter to me," she answered, which wasn't really an answer at all.
"Not as much as he does."
She pressed a hand against her head, aware of an aching pain in her temples. "Is there no hope of you two reconciling your differences?"
"Only one," he said. "For one of us to die."
She shuddered at the thought of Raoul dying, she could not bear it… but if he were to die… Christine felt as though her lungs were compressing in on themselves. God, she could no more wish Erik's death than she could wish her own annihilation. However much she might hate it, he was a part of her, and she would never be able to escape him, never, never. She thought he had died once and it had nearly destroyed her. She had been a mere ghost, haunted by a memory.
Christine clenched her fists.
I wish I had never met him, she thought savagely.
But no, that wasn't true, either. Not anymore.
She looked up at Erik. Her vision wavered, turning his dark figure to a rippling shadow. Her shadow. One that she could never shake herself free of. Unspeakable despair rose within her.
"You've already killed me," she said flatly. "The letter was just the final nail in the coffin."
Then she turned and fled the room without looking back.
Erik stared down at the discarded envelope on the floor. Such a small thing, really. A mere scrap of paper. Who could have thought that it would symbolise the end of hope, the end of salvation, the end of his world. He was overcome by crushing darkness. What a fool he had been. Why hadn't he burnt it, watched the flames curling the paper up at the edges and so eradicated its existence entirely? Why had he merely shoved it, unthinking, into one of his pockets, why had she had to find it?
He had endured anger, hatred and bitter scorn, but none of it had touched him as deeply as Christine's hurt. Just when he thought there was hope of –
Erik ground his teeth together.
What diabolical power was it that shaped his destiny so cruelly? What was this vast, pitiless universe that could bring forth only evil?
He kicked aside one of the crates savagely, grimly satisfied at the sound of splintering wood that reached his ears through the vague throb and hum of his heartbeat. After all, everything else had fallen apart. The sun was hot on the back of his neck, making him dizzy, the disordered array of books and clothes blurring out of focus.
She'll never forgive me, he thought. Not for this. Killing the man at the market had been a horrific thing – he flinched at the memory – but that had been impulse: pure, quick, unthinking. Not this cold deliberation, this cruel forethought. If he had wanted to hurt Christine, he had succeeded. He knew more about her now than he had even a couple of months ago; knew just what words to say that would cut her deeply, knew exactly what weapons to use against her. He had never wished to hurt Christine, but he had always been able to. They had been thrown together, familiar strangers in an odd, self-imposed isolation that had narrowed the world down to just him and Christine – him and Christine, the way he had always wanted it to be.
But not like this.
He had said he wanted her here to help him – but he realised it had never been about help, it had been about the possession of a soul. The knowledge ripped up unclosed wounds with a terrible force. And Christine had known it, the accusation in her voice –
Did you prefer it when I was merely some automaton bowing down to your wishes?
"But I gave you paradise," he muttered senselessly. "It was you who cast me into Hell."
He found himself escaping into memory, into those days when he had been only a voice to her, a voice without a face. Oh, how she had sang with her heart and soul, not knowing him, yet loving him for his tuition, his comfort in the midst of grief. Erik put his hands over his face, tears trickling through his fingers.
I would give everything I have, he thought wildly, just to have her sing with me as she used to – oh, once again! Can it never be?
But there was no hope to look forward to – no eternity – no life to come. There was here, and only here, these endless weary hours. He was lonely beyond endurance. To be deprived of union with one's beloved was to know despair. The blinding pain within him was the ultimate agony of love denied.
I thought once that Heaven was within my grasp. Now I see only the abyss. There can be no salvation for me.
Erik stared blankly around the light room, feeling the fierce sting of tears against the bright sunlight. He had been standing here for what seemed like hours before he realised what it was that he had been waiting for.
For her to come to him.
And what if she doesn't?
The response came instantly.
Then go to her instead.
Did he dare? He could remain here, waiting as day turned to endless night unfolding around him. A long-familiar embrace that was both comfort and torment. Protection and suffocation. But no more. Too long had he been in the dark.
Like an automaton, he rose stiffly and opened the door. Blindly, he walked down the corridor, wondering whether this was madness, whether she would speak to him or even look at him, if he even deserved her forgiveness after hurting her so many times, in so many different ways…
Her door was open. Of course it was open. Erik hesitated, his heart pounding. Then he thought, to hell with it, and without knocking, walked into the room.
The shutters had been closed; it was cooler and darker, only allowing the narrowest strip of burning light into the room. She was sitting in a chair against the table, turning something over and over in her hands that flashed with crystalline brightness in the restricted sun. She looked as though she had been crying. Although he wanted her to be happy, he could not deny that grief became her. It deepened and enriched her beauty, conveying a depth and strength it could never have acquired had her life been a fully pampered and pleasurable one. Old modus operandi, deriving the smallest comfort from intense agony.
Does it gratify you to know that? To know that you shattered her existence, that you destroyed her even as you resurrected her?
Her dark eyes were fixed on his, and he swallowed hard, aware of a deep ache somewhere in his soul. If he had ever doubted just how much injury he had done her, the testimony was there, facing him. Those eyes were far, far too old for a girl of eighteen. They were veritable wells of sorrow and heartache and experience that most people passed a lifetime without ever knowing. As would she, if she had never met you.
Erik tensed his shoulders, hardening his resolve. The time for remorse and useless wishes had long gone. The path they had started down had gone too far for either one of them to turn back now. They were bound to see this through to the end, wherever it led them.
How will this end? he wondered dimly. Will she succeed in pulling me up to Heaven, or will I drag her down into Hell?
Or would they end up somewhere else entirely, in a place that was neither of the two?
"Why didn't you tell me?" Her tone was hollow, almost too emotionless to be a question.
Erik inhaled a breath, steeled himself. "Because I didn't want to see you hurt," he said. "I hope you didn't think I was lying about that. I never wished your sufferings to equal mine."
"Yet they always seem to."
The nights in her dressing room of scented darkness and roses, watching her longingly through the silvered glass mirror, the ecstasy and the adoration –
"You thought me an angel once, Christine."
"I still do," she said. "I just don't know what kind anymore."
He knew he deserved it, but the words still stung. God, how had he thought himself strong enough for this? He walked across the room and took a seat, not wishing to appear too imposing by hovering over her. Erik smiled ironically. Who was he fooling? He was only sitting down because he doubted his legs were capable of holding him.
They sat facing each other across the table. Christine sighed and put down what she had been holding. At first, he had thought it was the mirror she had given him after – he winced – the marketplace, but he saw now it was a diamond ring on a band of silver. He had never seen her wearing it before…
"Do you forgive me?"
Christine leaned her head against one hand, and he saw her eyes were heavy-lidded and pearlescent with a fatigue that had nothing to with the heat or stifling atmosphere of the room. It was a shattered, bone-deep weariness of the soul. "I don't know," she said, finally. "I'm just – I'm tired, Erik. I'm so tired. You say you want forgiveness, yet you repeat the same mistakes over and over. How many times do you expect me to keep coming back after everything you do, no matter how painful or terrible?"
"Christine," he said, forcefully trying to keep his voice calm. He fought down the urge to shake her. "I'm trying here. At least give me something."
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "What are you expecting? I want to help you, Erik, and I'm trying, but it's so hard! You – you seem to think I'm some divine intercessor, but I'm not – I'm just me, and I don't even know what I'm doing! I thought…" She made a choked sound in her throat and seemed to find it difficult to go on. "I thought after what you said about feeling guilty, that things were different between us. That we were different. I began to think I could really trust you."
"And I want you to, more than anything –"
She continued, not listening to him. "But now, after the letter, I just feel so foolish for believing…"
"I'm sorry for destroying the letter." Erik was surprised to hear himself apologise, even more surprised to realise that he meant it. Or perhaps it wasn't such a surprise, after all. Had he just delivered the damn thing months ago, none of this would have happened.
Christine raised her head and looked up at him with tearful eyes. "Is that why you think I'm angry? I can understand why you did it, Erik. But you lied to me. And that – that is a lot harder to forgive."
"I can't change what I did in the past," he said bitterly. "It was months ago." An expression of bewilderment and pained hurt flashed across her face. "I know," he added hastily, "I know that isn't an excuse, but it's the best I have. I was just so… angry." He sighed deeply, and tried to convey his feelings into words. It was difficult, but harder still was the prospect of her never understanding, and destroying any hope of a new start between them. After all, that was the reason he had come to her instead of retreating into himself and dark ruminations as he had so often done in the past. "Christine, I'm not perfect. God knows I'm anything but. I'm probably the last person in the world that you should put your trust in, but I'm really trying. I've just… never had to consider anyone else before. And sometimes, it's difficult to remember."
She nodded slowly, and he knew she was taking in what he had said. He clenched his hands in his lap and waited for her to respond. Her dubious expression smoothed itself out into something softer, and Erik felt a tiny spark of hope flare inside him.
"I wish you had said all this before."
How was he to explain that his first response was always the defensive one? That it was far easier to resort to anger than to succumb to pain and vulnerability? But it was far more complicated than that. The reason he kept driving her away the moment they became closer was because a part of him felt he deserved to be punished; to be left alone to wallow in his guilt and sadness without the support he was not worthy of receiving. However much he professed to loathe mankind, it could never come close to how much he loathed himself. He looked down, trying to keep his voice impassive.
"Would it have made any difference?"
"It would have made things easier. If I'd known, I wouldn't have… retaliated. But it's hard. You can hurt me so easily, Erik, and after Raoul… that's not something I'm used to. I try not to let it get to me, but I'm not perfect, either."
"No," he said, with a boldness that surprised him. "And that's what makes you even more remarkable."
He was startled when Christine suddenly reached across the table and placed a hand over his. Her fingers were warm against his own, sending a vivid pulse, the hope of new life through his blood.
"So we'll both try," she said softly. "And when one of us does something, or says something hasty or foolish, we won't become angry and try to hurt each other. Not anymore."
Erik dared a glance at her. She was smiling; a tremulous yet genuine smile that filled him with a warmth he had never thought to feel again. At one time, an argument like this could never have been resolved. Was this all that had been needed? A moment of honesty, of understanding?
"Christine," he said. "There's something I have to tell you."
She looked up inquiringly. Erik silently cursed. What had prompted him to say that? But she was watching, waiting for him to speak. He could hear the words clearly in his head, echoing with a resounding clarity; The Vicomte de Chagny is here in Algeria. He's been searching for you all this time, he almost found you at the marketplace – but the words seemed to dry to ashes in his mouth. He inhaled the bitter air, dust and dryness sealing his throat. Grim resignation came over him. So this was to be his trial by fire, then. Either purge himself at the price of losing her, or commit the sin of omission in order to prolong this – this –
Were there any words to describe this state they were in, this eternal tug-of-war between the blessed and the damned?
She has a right to choose.
But I know what her choice will be. She'll go back – back to him. Of course she would.
So that was it. That old possessiveness won, as it always must. He couldn't tell her. Not yet. Not when they were just starting to repair the damage he had once thought irreversible.
"It doesn't matter."
She sighed. "You don't trust me, Erik."
"No, I –"
"You don't trust anyone."
"Can you blame me?"
"No. I know what you're life has been –"
His voice was weary. "You know. But you don't understand. Do you ever have the sense that you're completely alone in the world? That no one else thinks or speaks the way you do, and if anyone knew how you really felt… they'd dismiss you as mad?"
"All the time," she said.
It's not the same, he thought miserably. She's never been truly alone. Not the way I have. He closed his eyes. Will always be.
He opened his eyes. Christine was looking at him intently, her face pale with unhappiness. "Have you never had any friends, Erik? Not anyone?"
A sudden, searing pain pierced his heart at the memory of Nadir, startling and unexpected in its intensity. My guide. My friend. My betrayer. For a moment, it was hard to breathe. "There was a man, once. He was my conscience, my better half. I cared for him more than he ever – but he betrayed me too, in the end."
"I know what it's like, Erik." Her voice was soft, wistful almost. "To feel like you have no one. To feel pain that nobody else understands."
"And I was responsible for most of that pain," he replied despairingly.
"Erik –"
"No. It's true. I destroyed you. I destroy everything I touch."
"I don't believe that." He had never thought her gentle voice capable of conveying such surety. "But the way you spoke to me earlier… I think you wanted me to hate you. Why?"
"Because I deserve it," he responded flatly. "Christine, you bought me that mirror and it showed me what I am. What I always will be. A monster. A lost cause."
"Only if you're willing to let yourself become that. You cannot expect to be redeemed at once. It takes someone of – of extraordinary will and belief to have lived the life you have, and still retain a core of humanity. And it takes even greater strength to save your soul, or more importantly, to want to save yourself."
Erik could not bring himself to frame words, or thoughts. He could only marvel at the intensity of the strong, compassionate force enclosed within her slight frame. Never had he met anyone who was her equal. She was unique in her sincerity and blinding trust of others: something dear and holy, a light of redemption in this dark world. God, how he longed for her conviction. But he did not have it, so he must ask, "And if I'm not strong enough?"
She did not waver even for a moment. "It's easier to believe that, isn't it? To pretend you haven't changed, to just cling to what you know and not even try. No, the difficult part is struggling through every day, having to live out your penance and face up to what you've done. To strive to be the better man. And you might want to lie down and give up or try to convince me there is no good left in you, but I will never stop believing in you, Erik. Never."
He looked up at her in wonder. Her face was very pale in the ray of bright light, the mass of dark hair falling over her shoulders. She seemed almost a spirit, and he reached out in an entreating movement, as though terrified of her leaving him again. She was the one light in the blackness of his life; a shining emblem of hope and goodness and purity. He could not lose her now. He could not. When she was with him, he would never release her, when she was away from him, he would crawl from the ends of the earth to be at her side.
"So tell me, Erik. Do you want to be saved?" She stood up, sending a stirring of sand and dust with her movement that caught the sunlight in small patterns of iridescence.
"Think about it," she said quietly.
He could not think. Only stare, and feel his heart swell in a surge of intense sensation. He could never forget how much he loved her but at times like this he was forcefully reminded of it. These moments were like silent revelations, for he realised once again that he not only loved her, but he admired her. Not because of her beauty or her voice, but because of her kindness, something so rare in this world, and rare for him especially. Simple kindness that gained nothing for itself, and gave up rather than simply gave. He felt proud then, proud of knowing her and her ability to hope beyond all hope. She was the best and truest person he had ever encountered, and she seemed entirely unaware of it. If she only knew…
"Wait," he said.
She turned and looked back at him.
"What you said… about doing what's easy. You don't choose to do things because they are easy. You're driven to what's broken and imperfect, because you want to help. And you do it because you're strong – strong enough to bear it – even though it may not feel like it, sometimes."
He stopped speaking then, for Christine was staring at him. Her pale face was still but her eyes were shining with an emotion he could not name. Then she did something she had never done before; she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. The black mask ended at his hairline but he could feel the touch of her lips against the fabric and he released a shuddering breath. She had pulled away a moment later, but he imagined he could still feel the mark of her lips burning against him, like a damned creature might feel the brand of a Holy Object.
"Erik," she said, and her gaze was filled with yearning. "Why –"
Then she broke off, but he knew what she had been going to say. Why can't things always be like this; why can't we always have this understanding and not hurt each other; why –
But she only smiled a little sadly, then she had turned away, she was leaving…
Erik remained still, a maelstrom of conflicted feelings whirling inside him. Christine had forgiven him, which was more than he could have hoped for, more, he knew, than he deserved. They had agreed upon a new beginning, and she thought he was not beyond hope of redemption. His gratitude toward her was beyond overwhelming, he could have wept with joy.
But on the other side of the coin…
He still had not told her about the Vicomte. And now he never could. It might be wicked of him, but it was no more wicked than the desire to pull her into his arms for reasons that had nothing to do with comfort, or to imagine doing things to her that he would never dare admit outside his darkest dreams –
Yes, the road to redemption was a rocky one, and Erik knew he was by no means a reformed man. Even now, he thought darkly, I know I would exchange all hope of Heavenly forgiveness for one night with her in my bed.
He watched Christine walk away through hooded eyes, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
Yes, he might long for her with a spiritual reverence but he still continued to burn.