The Mask and Mirror

What is this life that pulls me far away
What is that home where we cannot reside
What is that quest that pulls me onward
My heart is full when you are by my side

(Loreena McKennitt, Caravanserai)

We shared emotions
Found new horizons,
But now doubt pervades me
I say another prayer in the night.

(Amici Forever, Prayer in the Night)

Chapter 24

The scene before him shimmered like a mirage. Erik gazed out through the narrow window. The shutters were half-closed, but it did not prevent the glare of white-hot sun illuminating the carriage interior, nor the heat that broke over his skin in glassy waves. The visible strip of blue sky was as vivid as stained glass. Sand was everywhere. A heavy, ancient aroma of dust hung on the air. For someone who had been everywhere, seen everything, this air was neither stifling nor oppressive, but rather seemed to fill him with new life and vigour.

The rapidly swaying motion of the carriage caused just the slightest current of air to ease the blistering mid-afternoon heat. Erik was leaning back against the slick leather of the seat in a merciful slant of shade provided by the shadow of the shutters, his jacket long since discarded. His shirt sleeves were rolled back, exposing the tanned skin of his arms, one leaning heavily against the window. He could feel the sun searing along the surface of his skin, but it was too hot even to move. The hair was sticking to the back of his neck in a damp, unruly mass, but did not dare shake his head in fear that the abrupt action would disturb Christine.

She had fallen asleep against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He sighed deep in his throat, savouring briefly the sensation of her soft curls clustered against his neck, the gentle sounds of her breathing, barely audible above the clatter of wheels. He realised that he enjoyed watching her sleep. It was the only time he could look at her with leisure, have her completely open and unguarded. The night he had first brought her beneath the Opera House he had merely sat for hours, gazing upon her with adoration and desire. The fact that she was comfortable enough in his presence to fall asleep on him without fear was something he could never have imagined when he had first returned from Europe, when things were at their very worst between them. And now…

She murmured something unintelligible and shifted against him. Erik could feel the slim contours of her figure moulded against him beneath the light fabric of her dress, sending burning currents through his body. The sensation was maddening. His fingers longed to caress the smooth line of her exposed collarbone, or to travel further down, beneath the flimsy material of the tauntingly chaste gown she wore. He silently marvelled at the whiteness of her skin, still untanned even after all this time. His own skin was positively swarthy in contrast. He wondered how it would look with them both completely unveiled to each other's gazes, her pale, feminine softness beneath his own body -

His fists clenched at his sides.

Had they been an ordinary couple, he would have suggested they let the shutters down fully and make a more pleasurable use of their time. As it was, he could do nothing but sit in silence, and reflect.

I will never stop loving her, he thought, and it was not with inflamed passion, but resigned certainty that he realised this. Whether it be in the centre of Parisian decadence or the windswept Algerian desert, that is one thing that I cannot alter. I believe if this world were consumed in flames and reforged anew, this feeling would endure. It is beyond me to restrain now. It is beyond us both. Can such a love be unrequited? Is it really possible that she feels nothing beyond pity - pity and duty?

Again, he looked out the window. He seemed to see through things, beyond them. Time lost its significance here.

And yet… she knows what I am. And she hasn't run. She is still here. That must mean something.

Yes, she had showed incredible belief in him, in his soul, presuming he still had one. Yet still he could not help but sometimes wish that her desires were of a more… secular kind. He remembered the performance of Don Juan with torturing vividness; how she had submitted willingly to being in his arms, had allowed him to caress her -

He clenched his jaw, gazing at the flat, shimmering expanse of sand. The scenery was strangely stirring to him. Heathen sights and scents and sounds. Such an assault on the senses could not but stir the blood. What better way to awaken her slumbering passions than to bring her to such an earthy, primal landscape?

"Erik…?" Christine murmured sleepily into his neck. His body tensed at the sound of her languid voice, her breath warm against the hollow of his throat. Heat flooded his lower body when he realised her hip was pressing against him. God, how sweet it would be to have her awaken in this manner after a shared night of passion, both of them exhausted and blissfully sated…

He dragged his thoughts away from such taunting possibilities and looked down at her, not wanting to betray too much emotion in his voice. "You fell asleep."

She squinted tiredly in the harsh light. "How long?"

He shrugged, and she felt the movement of his heavy shoulders. "About half an hour."

She realised then that she was leaning on him rather heavily, and sat upright at once, flushing. "I'm sorry."

Christine watched the fluttering of his shirt ruffles as he inhaled. His black hair was slightly dishevelled. She could feel the heat coming off his skin, and could imagine the rapid beat of his pulse beneath the surface. In an attempt to distract herself, she looked out through the narrow gap between the shutters. The view spread out before her with the harsh, hyper-real quality of an abstract painting. No noise or clamour of market life greeted her eyes here. Only silence and emptiness. It was barbaric. Magnificent. The sight of it recalled the memory of the dreams she was still having; dreams in which sand glittered gold under the noontide sun and blood ran in rivers across the desert wastes. And a voice crying out in pain and desolation for something lost that could never be regained.

Whatever it is, she thought sombrely, it's coming closer.

A rough sand breeze whipped at her hair. Christine dragged her fingers through her tangled curls, wondering what madness had induced her to leave her hair down in this searing heat. But then, wasn't everything about her current life madness? What bizarre series of circumstances had led her to this point?

What was she doing here?

Resting her chin on her hand, she mulled over her situation.

I am nineteen years old, in a strange country with a man who has extorted and lied and murdered without compunction. I have left behind a fiancée who loves me, and my reputation is most likely ruined.

And yet… I cannot say I am unhappy.

Christine had always told herself she wanted peace and tranquillity; a loving husband and a comfortable home was all she had asked for. She hadn't asked for danger or intrigue or madness or passion. Those things had been forced upon her, tearing her away from the happy ending she had been so close to attaining. And she was no longer the same Christine she had been six months ago. Already, she wondered whether those former luxuries would be enough to satisfy her soul.

She thought of neat lawns and red-bricked houses; she thought of dinner parties and crystal chandeliers; she thought of champagne flutes and piano keys; she thought of gilt and glass and silken snares, slowly tightening with a suffocating pressure.

There has to be more, she thought. More than that constricted life can offer me.

Here, the world was young. Or very, very old. She could almost believe anything was possible. But she was being ridiculous! It was absurd, this uprooting she had willingly undergone, she knew that as certainly as she knew her own name, something as definite and solid as the carriage wheels passing over ancient lands of dust, the jolting sensation through her limbs, the dust at the back of her throat and, God, the ripple of heat through her at the awareness of Erik's body close by hers, and that was more real than anything -

No, she certainly did not feel the caged, restless confinement she had experienced in Paris, even though in Paris, anything she wanted could be had for the asking. It seemed the more one gained, the less freedom they had.

Was this freedom? She could almost believe it was. Freedom from mansions and manners, from past sorrows and terrors, all of it slipping away like sand falling through her fingers. Yet perhaps it was not. If she had learned anything over these last few months, it was that you could never hide from the past; that it had a way of catching up with you the more you sought to evade or run from it. The proof of that was sitting beside her, darkness and desire dressed in a white shirt that fell pearlescent against swarthy skin. A black mask shrouding everything, yet hiding nothing. She had seen the look in his eyes, of wild desperation. The silent reproach was almost too much to bear. But knowing the time must come when she would never see it again was scarcely a consolation. The idea of not seeing him every day, not speaking to him… it was unbearable. The thought of it made her heart constrict.

My God, how can I think of leaving him? It would destroy him. I cannot think of it. I will not. Not until I must.

"Here."

Christine jumped at the deep intensity of Erik's voice as he spoke. She looked at him in surprise. The dark hair clung to the sides of his face in damp strands, he was leaning forward intently. She followed the direction of his gaze.

The flat landscape was falling away behind them. They were riding up a long white road that reflected the sun's fierce glitter. It twisted among some distant hills, scorched, with scrubbed yellowish grass and no trees in sight. The carriage rattled beneath her, sending a jolt through her bones. And she saw the house a last: a pretty white building set atop a hill, the long road leading steeply upward to its gate.

"Is this…?"

He gave a curt nod. Christine drew in a quick breath through her dry throat, sudden excitement coursing through her veins.

"Erik…" Her voice was hushed. "How did you afford this?"

"My dear, I was earning twenty thousand francs a month. I should be able to spend it on something." He gave a deep chuckle, for once without bitterness. Christine however, frowned at his blasé attitude. She hadn't forgotten his tortured reproach for those nine months he had spent in Europe.

"You told me you were living in poverty last year; you had to work for a living."

"Do you really want to know how I came by the money?"

"Perhaps not." She looked away, feeling guilty for the sudden desire to laugh.

"Rest assured that I caused no fatalities in acquiring it." The deep, masculine voice carried an edge of amusement.

"I never said –"

"You were thinking it."

"No – I – alright, for a moment, maybe."

He smiled slightly beneath the mask, and Christine felt the tension in her shoulders relax slightly even though a thread of doubt crept through her mind. Was it right that they should bantering over this? And when had Erik ever found a sense of humour in anything?

And when would she ever stopped being confused by him?

Perhaps it would be better if she stopped asking questions.

She sighed and dragged her eyes away from his inscrutable profile, looking instead at the place that was to be her home for the foreseeable future. The wall around the house was high and white, long cracks running through it from the heat. However, it provided much needed shelter in the yard. The small lawns were trimmed and well kept, yet she noticed they had a harsh, scrubbed quality that all the grass here seemed to possess. Dry vines trailed along the walls, pods scattered on the ground. Christine glanced around and saw a few scant trees lined along the rough-worn stone.

This is real, she thought wonderingly, far more real than the bright, hollow world in Paris.

She gave a start as Erik stood up in swift, fluid movement, and leapt from the carriage. Her eyes followed the movement of his retreating back as he began to converse with the driver. Closing her eyes until her vision was reduced to a strip of white heat, Christine listened to the distant rise and fall of Erik's voice as he spoke, the sound of it oddly soothing. She sighed and leaned back against the slick leather seat. Sweat beaded her forehead and ran down the back of her neck in slow rivulets. Coarse grains of sand chafed her tender skin. It would be a relief to get inside.

"Here," she heard Erik saying from far away. "I'll pay you twice as much for your discretion." Her eyes still closed, Christine smiled slightly. Lulled by the soft cadences of his voice, she felt herself relaxing in the warmth that basked her skin. Golden light danced behind her closed lids as sense of lethargy coursed through her body, sweet and cloying, like honey in her veins. Her pulse beat with a slow, languid rhythm. Once. Twice.

"Christine."

Those liquid syllables cut through her semi-somnolent state. She started, dark eyes flying open. Had she drifted off again? The carriage door was open, Erik standing beside it, waiting for her. His mouth was twisted in an amused line as he regarded her. A large, brown-skin hand rested lazily against the window frame. He appeared completely impervious to the heat; it was almost possible to believe his skin really was as cold and dead as she had once convinced herself, despite all experience to the contrary. Feeling the material of her dress sticking against her back, the white fabric turned translucent, she stood up, glad at the prospect of escape from this infernal heat.

Erik held out a hand to help her down. She took it. As he pulled her from the carriage, her foot caught on the step and she stumbled, half-falling into him. On instinct, his arms went out to steady her, catching her narrow waist with his hands.

Heat, skin, closeness. Rough cotton abrading her skin, a heartbeat pounding fiercely beneath the light fabric. Christine caught the scents of sweat and spice and road dust from lands unknown, the vivid energy of it exuding from the hard male body pressed against her own. Once again, his physical strength struck her with thrilling force. Something seemed to leap into life inside her chest; a fierce rush of sensation flaring and primal. She was burning, burning everywhere… Her heart beat with a fierce, savage delight.

The moment passed. She realised that her waist was still encircled by the warm weight of Erik's forearm. She stepped away on unsteady legs, still slightly bewildered at the rush of sensation. She walked forward a few paces, her feet leaving disordered prints on the dusty road. Particles of faded gold dusted her light shoes, vividly reminding her of the performance of Hannibal, in which she had been dressed as an Egyptian slave.

Really, she thought to herself, I thought it quite scandalous at the time, but in this heat, it's perfectly understandable.

The wind tugged at her dark hair, the curls whipping against her skin like the coils of a snake. Her slender shoulders were stiff against the whipping breeze of sand particles, the crisp white folds of her skirts tangling around her legs. Erik swallowed down a gasp at the sight. What cruel irony was it that his angelic saviour should come in the body of a seductive temptress, one, moreover, who seemed to have no idea of her charms? He would have happily shown her exactly what it was that she did to him, were it not for fear of undoing the slight progress they had made.

Christine realised Erik was waiting for her; his immobile frame large and daunting, dark against the afternoon sun. For a man who normally dressed so impeccably, she noticed that his shirt was damp, the collar open against his throat, and dust coated his black trousers. It had a very humanising effect, transforming him from soulful angel and vengeful phantom into a man. A very tall, very powerful man, but a man nevertheless.

Smiling slightly, she followed him into the house. As she stepped over the threshold, she was momentarily blinded by the abrupt transition from light to dark. Christine waited some moments for her eyes to adjust, merely registering the blissfully cool air that caressed her bare arms and neck. The sensation was exquisite after hours of riding in the parched heat. As her vision cleared, she realised they were standing in a spacious hall with wooden flooring and panelled walls. She inhaled deeply, noting with pleasure the scent of amber and wood resin and snuffed candles. This was nothing like the cramped boarding house in Alger, with its constant noise and the smell of markets and tightly pressed bodies. This was… a place of beauty.

She realised Erik must have been watching her reaction carefully, as she could almost hear the barely-restrained smile in his voice when he spoke. "Come," he said, "I'll show you around."

Obediently, she followed him through the hall. Each room he showed her seemed to unveil new wonders. He was like a Pharaoh showing off his exquisite palace to a mere concubine. His love of beautiful things was as evident as ever, but his Parisian abode beneath the Opera had always maintained a certain Gothic ornateness. The interior of this house was something else entirely. Gold-hued and exotic to her uncultured eyes, with furniture that seemed to come from centuries ago, the finest remnants of ancient civilizations spread before her wondering eyes. How had he come by such exquisite items? Had he hand-picked them from the markets, wishing to preserve their opulent beauty? She felt too intimidated even to run her hands over the ancient carvings like she wished to, although she doubted he would mind such an action.

As they passed through the wide living and dining spaces, Christine ran her fingers over the dust-creased folds of her gown, feeling woefully underdressed in the midst of such exoticism. Her plain white garment, with its simple eye-hooked bodice and unadorned skirts seemed plain and dull, although she had never minded it before. Over the past few months, her choice in clothing had been dictated by the blistering Algerian heat, calling for practicality over fashion or propriety. But now…

She breathed in the fragrant air, the heady scent of spices, and felt something rebellious stir within her heart. She was no longer in Paris, with its strict codes of formality, dictating what to say, how to act, when to smile. She was in a foreign country with a man who followed no calling but that of his own mortal desires. Who was to say she could not do as her own passions dictated?

A moment later, she was shocked at the impropriety of her thoughts. Only once had she completely discarded all sense of decorum and decency and thrown herself headlong in the furnace of her darkest desires. She had no intention of doing so again. Not for all the gold and trinkets in the world.

But still. One day she would have to ask him where he had acquired the furnishings for this house, and the individual story of each. He could speak so beautifully of history, his melodic, evocative voice able to rebuild ruins, shape dreams in tangible forms and relive memories in all their tragedy and beauty. She wanted to hear about ancient cultures, people who lived and loved and hated with equal passion, and how their heirlooms had come to be within these walls. How it was that they were now… theirs.

And this Cave of Wonders was to be her new home. Oh, how different from the home she had expected to come to as a young bride! And her companion was to have been Raoul, not the fierce, ruthless Phantom who had haunted and pursued her. The thought of Raoul brought a dreamy smile to her lips, as she thought of him without pain for once, merely with warmth and affection. It was strange, not to have that torturous, wracking ache in her heart which reminiscing so often brought, but it was enough to think over pleasant childhood memories, of ease and familiarity and affection. Lightness and laughter rose within her chest. Dear Raoul!

She wondered if Erik had guessed something of her thoughts, as the expression of burning passion that had leapt into his eyes was unnerving. His gaze was far too intimate. Christine clenched her jaw, standing her ground. She was not going to be made to feel guilty for thinking about her own fiancée!

"You look preoccupied," he said, with deliberate calmness. "Something on your mind, my dear?"

Christine merely looked at him. He already knew the answer, and she was not willing to play games. "I think you can guess," she said.

Erik stepped around to face her, bringing her up short. "Oh yes, I can guess." He seemed to absorb the last remaining vestiges of light and heat in the corridor, the close darkness wrapping around her like a dream. He leaned down as though he would devour her whole, broad shoulders cutting off any hope of escape. "I don't care if you love him," he breathed fiercely into her ear. "You feel something far stronger towards me, and be assured, Christine, I will uncover it. What you feel for me is something else entirely, and whatever professions of love you choose to make cannot possibly rival it. Not for one moment."

She could not look away from his dark, heavy-lidded gaze. It held her hypnotised, like the glittering eyes of a cobra toying with its prey. Her mind was whirling. Love… feeling something stronger… uncovering… she could not register his words, not with him standing so close, his hot breath against her ear, stirring her hair… No part of his body was touching her, so why could she imagine the feel of muscled flesh as she had felt when he had caught her from the carriage? She remembered that he had lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all. Christine shivered involuntarily, but he was looking into her eyes, he wouldn't notice that…

"Please let me pass." She was relieved that her voice came out calm, even.

Erik stared at her darkly for a moment, then obliged with mocking graciousness. He kept pace with her as they walked through the quiet house between the shadows, light and dark playing with the veils of heat and dust that hovered in the air.

She looked sidelong at him. He moved with the lazy grace of a hunting-cat waiting to pounce. She could see the tense line of his jaw, the forbidding darkness in his eyes like a gathering storm. Grim silence radiated from his body into the still air.

Curiosity finally impelled her to speak. "What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking how different would things have been," he murmured, "If I had never met you."

She had wondered this too. Yearned for it, once. Now it was no longer so simple.

A life without Erik? Could she imagine such a thing? Did she even want to?

The idea was awful. Unthinkable, even. If she had never met Erik, she would have lived an unremarkable life in the Opera House, obscure and unknown to everyone, except for Raoul…Yet it was only Erik's coaching that had enabled her to step into centre stage on the night of Hannibal. If it were not for that, Raoul would never have seen her again… oh, it was all to confusing and complicated and painful to think over, and why could she not break free of this, of him?

You know why.

She felt pain just thinking about it.

Erik laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose we'll never know. Whether in our own separate ways, we could have found some measure of contentment… peace."

Contentment? Peace? She hardly knew what those words meant anymore. They were buried in that same part of her mind as Raoul; things she knew existed, but seemed to belong to a different world. Even if she went back to Paris, how could she take up her old life again, as though none of this had happened? She had barely managed it the last time.

She looked at him, her mind floundering, seeking answers.

He has possessed my mind and soul. He has taken my life and shattered it beyond repair, and even now I would have it no other way.

Her heart shuddered.

I will never be normal again.

They had come to a halt outside one of the doors. Christine turned to Erik, the expression in her eyes inquiring.

"What's this?"

"This is to be your room. If you want it, that is."

It was an innocent enough statement but for the way he said it, with such dark suggestion… as though she would prefer to sleep in a room with - with -

Flaming colour rushed into her cheeks that she could not fully attribute to the heat. Would he never let her forget that performance of Don Juan? He gazed down at her, stern, impassive. Christine found herself once again infuriated by his ability to hide behind that black mask when he could read her own emotions with such ease.

He gestured her to go in, and she was relieved to do so, certain that he was making fun of her, though she could not define how exactly. Swallowing hard, and not entirely sure what to expect, she turned the handle and walked in.

She could sense Erik behind her as he entered, feel him breathing against back of her neck. Her skin prickled in response. Why was it when he stood close to her all the air in the room seemed to disappear? His words sounded, low and sweet in the scented air, blurring past and present.

"What do you think?"

"I didn't realise it would be so big," replied Christine, staring around the generously sized room in awe.

Raoul laughed. "You'll soon get used to it. It's been redecorated. To be honest, I didn't think they would get it done on time, after all, the wedding's in two weeks."

Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw the maidservant quietly leave, and realised she was alone with Raoul in what would soon be her bedroom. A slight shiver – by no means unpleasant – passed through her at the thought. She let her eyes wander over the tasteful furnishings – typical Raoul, not to have anything too lavish or gaudily decorated. She sometimes wondered if he felt rather guilty at having so much money that had come to him by birthright. Trim rosewood desk and a dressing table, cream coloured carpets and long curtains in a pale apple green. No lavish draperies, sensual decadence or rich colours of crimson passion in sight. Yes, she would be very happy here. Instinctively, her gaze fell on the four-poster bed.

She jumped almost guiltily at Raoul's hand on her shoulder, and embarrassed colour flooded her cheeks. He didn't seem to notice.

"So you really like it?"

"Like it? Raoul, it's perfect."

He smiled at that, a deep heartfelt, genuine smile. She felt it warming her from the inside out. His hand had not moved, and although she was wearing several layers, she imagined she could feel the heat of his fingers passing through the material and against bare skin.

"I saw the collection of Grimm's Fairy Tales on your bookcase," she continued quickly. "I remember my father had a copy just like it; why don't we –"

"Some other time, perhaps," said Raoul softly, and she wasn't sure whether it was the bright winter sunlight reflecting in his eyes, or something else. It had suddenly become very difficult to breathe. Christine was sure it wasn't just her, either. She could almost sense his heightened awareness of how close they were standing together, and his hand, either deliberately or by instinct, traced a slow line from shoulder to collarbone.

She tried to talk lightly, but her voice came out a little shaky. "You've been to so much trouble…"

"It was worth it," he murmured against her mouth, and she was kissing him – or he was kissing her, his hands sliding from her shoulders to lock around her waist. It was the same and different all at once, the comforting familiarity of Raoul, but they were in his bedroom, his bed only inches away, for goodness sake, and she shouldn't even be thinking such immodest thoughts, and what would Madame Giry say…

The shawl she had worn around her shoulders against the chill slid unnoticed to the floor, and she became aware that his lips were at her cheek, her jaw line, the side of her neck… She shivered although she wasn't cold; no she most definitely wasn't cold –

This was ridiculous. Why, it was the middle of the afternoon, and a maidservant could return at any moment and – a million other reasons flew around her head, reasons that were as meaningless as leaves caught in the wind.

Locked together, they stumbled back until Christine felt a sudden, shooting pain up the backs of her calves and yelped. Raoul pulled away at once, eyes wide and concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she breathed, overcome with an inappropriate urge to start giggling. "We – I just walked into the bed –"

Raoul ran a hand through his hair in a half embarrassed gesture. "Oh," he said. And then "Oh," again. "I'm sorry. We got a little –"

"Carried away," she finished, ducking down to retrieve her shawl to hide her red face.

"Christine?"

She blinked, hard. She didn't need to see Erik's face to know the forbidding expression he would be wearing. "If you don't like the room –"

"No, it's fine," she said quickly.

His hand flew out, catching her wrist. If he felt her pulse leap beneath his fingers, he made no mention of it. "So I may assume that you like it, then?"

Christine glanced around, realising she hadn't taken in any of her surroundings. It could not have been more at variance to the room that Raoul had shown her. There was black and crimson of silk and brocade, lit by a soft golden glow of light that passed through the gap in the curtains. Polished dark floorboards – she had expected cool stone to counteract the Algerian heat – beneath her feet and a large boudoir dominating one wall. Lucrece herself could not have slept in such a luxurious chamber as this. She shuddered at the analogy. The shrouded half-darkness, the expectant ambience and lingering aroma of incense curled around her senses like a half-forgotten dream, sweet and drugging. In all, it bore an uncanny resemblance to her dressing room at the Opera. Was this some unconscious reminder that in bygone days he had once been everything to her? The old story being rewritten to shape the ending as he desired. She shivered slightly within the shadow of his body and heard the breath catch in his throat. The only thing missing, she reflected, was the roses bound with a black ribbon, a symbolic pledge of beauty and devotion and sharp pain.

Shadows danced along the mirror on the opposite wall. Christine stared at her reflection, the brooding figure hovering behind her, his hands still on her skin, his breath stirring her hair.

"Yes," she found herself saying softly, "I do like it. Very much."

It was only when he had turned and soundlessly left that she realised this was true.

The sun had passed its zenith when Erik made his way through the cool and shaded corridor, long shadows starting to stretch along the floor before him. Booted footsteps made barely a sound against the strips of wood, a lingering after-effect of so many years of self-trained caution and restraint. They came to a halt altogether when he saw Christine's door was ajar. Sudden curiosity filled him, and he remained motionless, one hand coming to rest on the doorframe as his dark eyes sought and found the object of his desire within.

She was kneeling piously, skirts billowing around her in that shade of virginal white she seemed to favour. His breath caught at the sight of her dark hair spilling over her shoulders in curling waves. Her head was bowed as she whispered words of penitence with a feverish intensity.

O My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love -

Erik's hand tightened against the doorframe - a small, involuntary reaction. He was astounded, for what did she need to repent of? In his eyes she was perfection itself: his very own angel, sweet and strong and martyred. Erik could not help but wonder whether she would have been so good had he not shown her the side of evil. He had made her what she was.

Did she pray for him at all? And if so, what did she see? A soulless monster, or a man, scarred and ruined, though not entirely without hope?

I will be worthy of her, he thought grimly. I will.

Prayer had always been something that bewildered him. Beneath the lyrical beauty and sentiment, the words were ultimately hollow, turning to ash as they remained ever unanswered. Words meant nothing. Foolish utterances, cajoling lies, broken promises. The written word was just as fallible. Pages could be burned, writing gone without a trace. It seemed the only thing one could truly immortalise was music.

It had never really occurred to him before that Christine might want to go to Church - or rather, he had not really wanted to consider the matter too closely. It would mean having to bring up the awkward fact that he did not want to go. He would not have stopped her attending had she wished to, but the thought of the quiet reproach in her eyes when he would refuse to pass the threshold was too much to bear. Even the prospect of seeing the baroque architecture and antiquated magnificence was not enough of an inducement to enter the sanctuary of a God who had long since abandoned him. Besides, looking at her now, it appeared she had found an adequate shrine without any need of chanting priests or incense or vespers.

No icons. No candles. Just the light slanting through the windows onto polished wooden flooring, the kneeling young woman and the whispered litany. There was something almost ethereal in the heart-aching beauty of the scene. She did not deserve to be here. She deserved to be up there, in endless glory - but he would not let her. She was the guiding light in the howling, bewildering darkness of his life. Without her, he was utterly lost.

God, don't take her from me - I need her!

He would fight all the host of Heaven to keep her at his side. Even if it appeared in the form of a golden-haired, blue-eyed saviour; a nobleman on a crusade of righteous justice, to reclaim her for that world of light and beauty. She aspired for that holy world, while he was tormented by unholy thoughts.

He recalled her enticing form encased in crimson, the sultry flash of her dark eyes, luring as a snake to its charmer. The fluid movement of her sensual body within the possessive hold of his arms, all curves and coquettishness. But looking at her now, who would have thought it? She seemed the very model of purity, so innocent, so… unattainable. But then, wasn't forbidden fruit always supposed to taste the sweetest?

No, he could not believe that. She was not something to be tainted and corrupted by his profane urges. He could never do that. Not to Christine. He loved her too much for that. She was the one truly kind, selfless person he had known. And if it meant only being able to gaze at her from afar to preserve that, then he would submit to it willingly.

But God, it hurt!

The whole reason for his existence was irrevocably separated from him, casting heartfelt prayers up to Heaven, while he writhed in the torments of Hell, cursed by the demonic voices that even now plagued him with reminders of past atrocities.

What a fool he had been, to think forgiveness was so easily granted, that redemption could be attained so simply! No, to be redeemed from such a wretched past as his, one had to struggle, to die, to be martyred. He longed for fire and crosses, for shattered glass and blood spilled chalices. Had he really thought that hours of languishing in guilt and misery were sufficient? What a fool he was, to have convinced himself of that!

Christine doesn't think so. She believes in me.

She believes in me.

For a brief moment, hope flared and ignited in his heart. Unconsciously, his hand went to his pocket where he kept the mirror she had given him. He had it by him always now, to remind himself of the man she saw, the man he might one day become. Erik was overcome by a searing wave of love and yearning, and beneath it, crushing despair.

He had given her a home that was a paradise and the first thing she did was shut herself away to pray for a better state. This was what his careful devotion meant to her. It was as though he had put out his hand for a flower and grasped only withered leaves. The sight of her, kneeling and penitent, told him a thousand times what mere words could not.

She loves God more than she does me.

And how could he blame her?

That brought him completely to his senses. He released his brutal, gripping hold on the doorframe. His hands hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt.

I - I cannot stay here…

He would not stay. He would not be alone, invisible, silent any longer.

Blindly, Erik walked out of the room and down the corridor; blindly, he opened the door to the music room; blindly, he walked towards the instrument. His head was aching, throbbing, bowing under the weight of his very own crown of thorns.

He needed… he needed release. And his music, the music that he loved!

The absence of music had left a bitter emptiness in his soul. For a time he had thought he could do without it… just as in those months in Europe he had told himself he could do without Christine. Nothing so easy. The two were one and the same, his sole reason for living in this dead world. A place dedicated to music had been his first thought in coming here. It was his second self, the part of him that Christine inspired and loved in turn. How could he have done without it all this time?

He sat down at the piano stool, struck by a sudden pang as he thought of his beautiful organ left to gather dust beneath the Parisian Opera House. But still… he hadn't played in so long… His fingers ran over the keys with a tentative reverence as he inhaled the polished wood scent of the instrument, one that was an endlessly soothing balm to his scarred soul. One of his fingers pressed against a key. The one reverberating note seemed to pass through flesh and bone. He paused, his entire being stilled to the sensation. Oh, how he had needed this. How he had missed it. Only now did he realise how much. No power on this earth could have persuaded him to step away from the instrument now. He played a chord again, but this time his fingers fell against the keys with a convulsive tension. His chest was heaving with some unnamed emotion, heaving, rebellious sobs burning in his breast.

Oh God! I wanted her to love me, but she can't, she can't, she can't. How many months have I been waiting and hoping - my soul singing if she so much as casts a smile my way or drops a single kind word in my direction - is that to be the only shreds of happiness that life will offer me? I don't want to live like this - I don't - always seeing the pain, the sorrow, without the joy to counter it. I tell you - if I had not this mockery of a face, I would render her so enslaved to me that she would be dying of love for me, ready to abase herself at the mere contemplation of being in my presence, and then we would see how much she would appreciate being pitied -

He laid a burning, tear-stained cheek against the cool keys, deep-breathed gasps shuddering through his frame -

No - no - I wouldn't wish that on her. She has been nothing but good and kind when I have been a brutal monster, I could never wish such a wretched state to be hers. It is only I that am wicked, and cannot justify the faith she has in me when I do not deserve it -

The music, the emotion, pierced him through and through. It seemed to burn him inside like a white flame. And as he played, he thought, and remembered, and cried inwardly. He was bleeding to death with love and passion. How would this end? One only loved once like that. The human heart was not strong enough to endure such violence and despairing passion again. His love had long ago turned to despair. It was safer and wiser to remain detached. And yet - and yet - he could no more cut himself off from her than he could renounce his own self…

He played to give vent to the wild moods wrestling in his soul, struggling for release. There was pain, there was melancholy, there was exquisite rapture as he lost himself in the stormy passions that passed through his shaking frame. He played as he loved, with the greatest, and strongest, and most heartrending surrender to emotion. His senses were awakened, alive, crying out under the moral crucifixion his heart and soul had undergone. The months, the days and hours flashed by in images. Endless sand and sun, the life's blood of a stranger staining a knife and his conscience, Christine's entreating face as she knelt at his feet and professed her undying belief in him… The clasped hands, the unwavering certainty in her voice, the soul's passion betraying itself in her eyes… He would not forget that in his lifetime, never, never -

Christine did not know how many hours he had been playing.

She lay on the bed, the earth spinning beneath her and the music passing through her as the sun wheeled overhead. Years and years blurring into one, trickling like sand through an hourglass. Paris became Algeria, Algeria became Jerusalem, the scene of the greatest agony and the most sublime hope. Images of religious iconography blurred with her dreams of blood and searing loss. The passion and the pain.

The curtains were thrown wide, the high afternoon sun blazing in through the windows of her bedroom. It was so bright, it hurt her eyes. Memories of her engagement shimmered before her. In all that time, something, somewhere had been lost to her. Only now did she realise the cause for this restlessness, this aching longing.

The loss of music.

Listening to Erik's music had been such a heartrending and elevating experience that everything in comparison seemed… hollow, somehow. Devoid of meaning. She remembered how she used to return from his lessons unable to concentrate or settle to anything, thinking only of when she could once again hear the agony and hope and ecstasy that encompassed the human experience. She wanted to listen until all heartbreak and sorrow was washed away.

Oh, how he played! It was consuming, heartrending, unbearable. And vitally necessary.

She could not imagine a world without Erik or without music. To her, they were one and the same, bound inextricably with her soul. To take either away would be to leave her empty and desolate. Shattered and broken.

Christine sat upright, realisation washing over her. His music had given her something she was missing. She had found something she hadn't realised she had needed. She had, of her own volition, deprived herself of those glimpses into divine ecstasy, those brief flashes of transcendence that left her faint with yearning. She had cast that world away.

No. I never renounced it, never. I could not.

I will not.

She had to go to him.

Unthinking, Christine passed through the hall, conscious only of an inexplicable need to find Erik. To find him, and… she longed to comfort him and exorcise his pain. Her face burned with heat though the air was cool. She knew the sun would be setting soon, plunging the landscape around them into a darkness beyond anything she had ever encountered in Paris. Yet who needed light when the darkness could be so beautiful? Erik had shown her that. Her heart buckled as memories overwhelmed her. Nights in her dressing room, mirrors and darkness and prayers to her father, evocative melodies entwining her…

In those hours, I think I glimpsed Heaven.

She stood at the doorway, listening to him playing within. Quietly, she pushed the door open, stepping inside softly so as not to disturb him.

He was seated with his back to her, wholly absorbed in the instrument before him. Christine could only marvel at the searing intensity with which he played. Such music. No one else on this earth could play like that, or crystallise such thought into song. The piece was graceful and mysterious, with a convulsive tide of sorrow that slowly bore into her heart, captivating her with its underlying melancholy. It touched her with immense, almost infinite emotional power, graced with intensity and brilliance. Intense loneliness smote her being. The tears fell and splashed on her hands almost before she was aware of it.

She closed her eyes.

Such beauty…

She felt her heart swelling with intense emotion. This was the proof, right before her.

This is how I know his soul is something beautiful, something elevated and worthy of salvation. For how else could his music be full of such divinity?

"Erik."

He turned around quickly, for once caught by surprise. Seeing her hovering uncertainly in the doorway, he sighed softly, the motion of his fingers coming to a halt. He seemed to be in one of his melancholy, introspective moods. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I didn't wish to disturb you. Your music… I cannot describe how moving it is."

He shrugged with feigned indifference. "I only play what I feel."

"Then you are the most deeply feeling person I know."

He gazed at her with one of those familiar searching looks that seemed to penetrate the very depths of her soul. "You haven't sang for a while." It wasn't a question. Her mouth fell open in surprise.

"How did -"

A wry smile curved his mouth. "Because I know you. Better than you would like to admit."

Christine didn't smile back. Instead, she swallowed hard, suddenly heartsick. For her father, for the past, for missed opportunities, she could not say. She tried to speak past the tightness in her throat. "You're right. I haven't played or sang in - oh, such a long time…"

"Why?" he demanded quietly.

"I couldn't bring myself to. I thought if I did…" Her voice lowered to barely a whisper, "…my heart would break."

His face softened, a choked sigh escaping him. "Oh, Christine."

Her entire body trembled at the pity and longing in his voice. He knows, she thought with a rush of emotion, how much it means to me, how he healed me, so long ago. I always forget, and I shouldn't. He may have committed deeds of unspeakable evil, but oh, he has done such good, too.

"There was something I wanted to ask you." She took a deep breath, the conflicted emotions tightening painfully in her chest. "If I am honest with myself, I've been meaning to ask for a long time now."

Erik was staring fixedly down at his hands, as though afraid of betraying too much emotion. She could hear the shuddering intensity in his voice; one lingering, beautiful note. "Ask."

"I was wondering if you would give me singing lessons again."

He looked up sharply at that. "You're sure, Christine?"

She felt the strength of his gaze on her, and a choking feeling rose up in her throat. "I'm sure."

"Why?" he demanded. "Why now?"

"I miss it," she said, simply. "You have no idea how much. Or perhaps you do. And… I thought it might be good… giving you something to keep you occupied –"

Erik's face was tense and taut, but his eyes blazed with sudden fire. "Spare me the feelings of pity," he said flatly. "I would prefer your hatred."

The whiplash change of mood was startling. She stared at him, wide-eyed. "You don't mean that."

"Oh, don't I?" he flashed.

Christine was bewildered. Why was he so angry? She thought suddenly of his insufferable pride and wondered again how Erik could loathe himself yet be so narcissistic. "Did you think I was patronising you? Because I wasn't. I only wanted to help –"

"Oh, I know. You always want to help. And you do – with the expression of a victim tied at the stake. I am tired of being your martyrdom. Did you ever consider how painful and humiliating it is for me to know that you look at me and see not a person, but your penance? Perhaps I no longer want to be the whip for your self-flagellation, the altar at which you can abase yourself. Did you ever think of that, Christine?"

Her mind was reeling, shock rooting her to the spot. Those obsidian eyes were like looking into a hollow void. Is that what he thinks this is… Is that what I'm doing?

"Erik –" she said. "It was never about – I never meant –"

He laughed, and she winced at the cruelty in the sound. "And I thought I knew something about self-loathing." His quiet, tightly controlled voice cut through her like a laceration to the heart. "Let me know when you decide to stop punishing yourself and start living again, Saint Christine. Because I'm starting to think I liked you better flawed and fallible."

No… she wanted to help him, not tread over him as a further means to secure her own place in Heaven. Did he really think her capable of doing that to him? After everything? Did he have no idea what he meant to her at all? Her eyes had begun to sting with passion and hurt.

I thought it would stop, she thought. But it never does.

"Why are you so willing to believe the worst in everyone, Erik?" she said quietly.

He winced at that, and she saw a poignant flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. She knew him well enough to read him now, and saw the expressions that rapidly passed through those passionate orbs. Bitterness, vulnerability and - yes - guilt.

"I'm sorry," he said, in a low voice. "That was unfair."

Christine felt her heart soften at the obvious sincerity in his words. Sometimes she wished she had the ability to hold on to her anger. Now wasn't one of those times. His violence, as always, was balanced by tenderness.

She drew closer to him until she was standing by the piano stool where he was seated. Without thinking, her hand came up to rest against his masked profile, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the black fabric, the magnificently carved lines of his powerful jaw. Erik stiffened at the touch but did not move away. Her fingers slowly traced a tender line across his cheekbone. She was so heightened to the sensation, the feel of him, that her voice seemed to come from a very great distance.

"If I've made you think that being here is making me miserable, I'm sorry. Because it hasn't."

He drew back slightly, so he could look into her face. "It hasn't?"

"No. It has made me… confused. Uncertain. But not unhappy."

"I'm glad," he said at last. "I couldn't bear you to be unhappy here."

There was such desperation in his voice that she wanted to draw him into her arms but she dreadfully feared he would flinch away. She was leaning over the instrument, her long hair falling down and brushing his shoulder blades. "Play to me," she said softly. "Like you used to. Before anything came between us."

He looked into her wistful eyes. "You won't sing?"

She smiled faintly. "For now, I think I'd just like to listen."

Erik stared at her a moment, then nodded. His fingers brushed the keys, almost tentatively at first, before beginning to play with that surety and vigour so unique to him.

It was the same, yet different, different… No disembodied voice was this, drawing her with invisible chains and unseen authority. How could she have ever thought so for a moment? How could she in all those years have never realised this was a man? A man who had brought death and destruction while giving her life and hope in the same instant. Soulful and spiritual, passionate and primal, a living, breathing contradiction. Would she ever understand him? She knew this proud, furious man better than anyone, yet in many ways he was still a stranger to her. She watched him play, as one entranced.

His shirtsleeves were rolled back slightly, revealing a strip of honey-coloured skin. Nowhere was the contradictory nature of Erik more evident than in his hands. Large and strong and powerful, hands made for labour, yet artistic enough to breathe divine music into the body of any instrument. The memory of the things those hands had been able to do to her was something she would rather not remember.

Unwillingly, she recalled his words. You feel something far stronger towards me, and be assured, Christine, I will uncover it.

She watched the slow, almost languorous movement of his body as he leaned back slightly in the seat, losing himself in the completeness of it. The broad expanse of his back beneath his shirt was arched slightly, drawn by madness, magic… who knew? She had given up trying to know, trying to understand. His music had hypnotised her for longer than she could remember and it no longer worried her. The only thing she feared was that he would never stop.

And in the meantime, if she drowned in the patterns, the tide, the rhythm… then she would drown.

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