The room was still, save the faint ticking of the mantle clock, a relic he'd brought with him from his mother's house. Something he remembered being constantly present in childhood, and now associated very closely with the concept of "home." Strange, how the mind worked. How a place where he had been met with so much pain and derision should still be desirable enough to emulate, to bring small affectations from its walls into his own. Even after the memory of his mother's voice had faded, he still carried images, snapshots of a childhood best committed to mothball memories and driven into the deep recesses of his mind. He wondered at the strange lingering presence of those remembrances. Gardens long forgotten. Shabby rooms now preserved in the antique Byzantine-tinged frames of memory. Funny how even time can make the horrid somewhat beautiful, even if only in a nostalgic way.
He'd filled the long hours with a series of menial tasks, trying to keep his hands busy and his mind numb when he wanted nothing more than to agonize and obsess, replaying the scenes from earlier and planning and plotting the setting still to come. Finding that path detrimental to his peace of mind, he'd instead attempted sleep, assuring himself in a rather naive way that rest would pass the hours quickly and leave him more alert and calm when the appointed time arrived.
After nearly an hour of restless thrashing, he heaved his legs over the side of the bed in frustration. Sat up, craned his neck wearily, regarded his dim bedroom with a critical eye. The light from the outside hall blanched the carpet with its pale light, but even when bathed in greyish white the somber overtones of the room were not lost on him. The room was dark and menacing, the furnishing imposing to a ludicrous degree. And as if the gothic tomb he chose to sleep in was not disturbing enough on its own, its state of disorder dealt the crushing blow. A pile of books - treatises on architecture, masonry, history, and the arcane - toppled from one threadbare armchair. A heap of discarded clothing lay across the bench at the foot of his bed.
He left the room, eager to be out of its dank and claustrophobic space, and found the rest of the house similarly alarming. His home was a mess of discarded paper and overstuffed bookcases, the contents of which were now dustily and decrepitly escaping from their perches and threatening to overtake the floor. An old collection of now-defunct maps and building plans had tumbled from one of the shelves and nearly destroyed a collection of crystal orbs from Norvgod. The evidence of the disaster, something that must have been a spectacular show, now lay in shards and crumbles at the foot of an absurdly high-backed wooden chair. He surveyed the aftermath with a look of hapless dismay.
When had he let things fall this far into disrepair?
It wasn't just his bedroom. This house was a prison he'd entombed himself in, hung with all the trappings of the funeral pyre. Like some great and decidedly mad pharaoh, he'd collected the few items that signified landmarks in this life and hoarded them away, allowing them to crumble and break without a second thought.
Erik wiled away the time putting some semblance of order back into his life. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, he gathered the discarded remains of his possessions and repaired what he could - tossing the rest into a large basket he would later empty into one of the many empty wells dug by the commune in years past. His clothing returned to the wardrobe, his rugs swept clean, the pile of dishes washed, and the scattered scraps of paper attended to at last, he retreated to the massive Turkish bath which was, by far, the most luxurious appointment his otherwise modest house had to boast. Thick with marble and heaped with soft rugs, it had at its centerpiece a large and deep tub.
It was into this tub that he sank, feeling oddly satisfied with the activity of the day. It wasn't as if the transformation, and the reason behind it, was entirely lost on him. He'd finally felt the need to get things back in order. To make his home a home again. To make it, and by extension himself, more presentable.
Presentable to whom?
The realization hit him like a surprise blow to the stomach. Oh, no you don't. That little voice, admonishing him in the back of his mind. You're not really thinking all this is going to result in... in what? A houseguest? A visitor? Do you really believe for a moment that she is going to breathlessly follow you down here? Why? Why would she ever do such a thing? Do you believe she's going to keep up this whole charade once she realized who really lurks just out of view?
"No," he whispered aloud.
The house answered him with silence.
Twenty minutes later he made his way quietly through the rotunda passage, pausing twice to listen to the vast emptiness above. How long had he lingered? Surely the opera hadn't been dark for too long.
Rehearsal Space Six was surely one of his finest achievements. He'd taken the idea from the mirrored room he'd built the Shah, octagonal mirrors that pointed in at one another, giving anyone in the center of the room a merciless view of themselves from every possible angle. The ballet corps had taken to using it for practice space, finding the views easier to carefully critique which of the dancers were out of step, out of line, out of form. For him, it provided the perfect illusion. The lights in the room made anything above the mirror's top line impossible to see. He could watch her from the precipice above, the spot reserved for the accompanist, while she would be blind to his position. He made his way quietly through the eaves, up the small stair, and onto the platform.
Below, her skirts spread out around her like some fallen flower, Christine sat with her hands folded in her lap. Patiently waiting. For him.
The first cold hand of doubt clutched his heart as he gazed down on her penitent form. This was madness. How long could he possibly pray to keep up this charade? How long would she go without revealing she was being visited by angels here in the opera house? How long until someone put two and two together and she learned the horror of truth? It was madness to come here. It was madness to pursue her. It was madness to play this silly game when it would inexorably lead to his own destruction. Erik turned toward the stair again. He'd been foolish and simple to consider it, he'd behaved ridiculously and...
"I have done as you wished, please, grant yourself to me… I surely could not bear it if it were a mere figment of my imagination…."
Her words reached through him, pulled him by the spine backward to the edge of the overhanging catwalk. It was as if she knew what to say, when to say it. His resolve to just leave, to walk away and forget her name, her face, her voice had drained from him completely. He could no sooner turn his back on her than he could deny his own existence.
"I am here," he said softly, flexing those unique properties of his voice that seemed to most enthrall. Erik knew how his voice affected people. Men always seemed happy to serve the possessor of its strange undertones and women... women somehow seemed to be muted under it, held silent and breathless. He'd assumed it was out of fear, something in his voice threatened and commanded and they were loathe to disobey.
Once, he'd flattered himself into believing it might be seduction they were experiencing. That was shoved away, he knew only his own arrogance presumed such things.
"Speak," he commanded. "Tell me what it is you ask of me," he took in a breath, "and I will tell you what I require of you."
She rose at the sounds of his voice, propelled upward on invisible marionette strings, swaying and smiling faintly, her arms turned outward in a show of deference and supplication. He found it more intoxicating than anything he'd before known, the way she bent beneath his will like a reed in a strong wind.
"Oh, angel, I shall do whatever you ask! Lead me to the ends of the earth, take me from this wretched place and teach me!" Her face flushed, head bent, the words poured from her in breathless excitement. Erik became eternally grateful for the railing beneath his hands, his grip tightening as each dulcet tone floated up from her lips.
"Teach me all of the wonders of music and beauty. I am merely a humble servant to you…" the last words departed her mournfully, her chin tucked into her chest. The strange tide of desire that had threatened to overtake him turned into a wash of sympathy, the rising guilt inside causing his own flesh to flush. He'd nearly forgotten himself.
"I am a simple girl, unworthy of your gifts. I will live to serve you and music until the last star is extinguished in the heavens…."
His gloved fingers again curled around the railing roughly, his eyes closed as he fought back his own impulses. In the dark recesses of his mind he could still see the pale crane of her neck, the soft expanse of her arms escaping her sleeves, the way her chestnut colored hair fell unruly and wild about her shoulders, obscuring them from view at times and at other moments allowing glimpses of them. In all of his childish wantings and wanderings, he had dreamed of womanhood this perfected. In the silly attractions he had held to the two young girls he'd had the unfortunate luck to be fleetingly close to, he'd nevertheless noticed their flaws, the imperfection of their features and the strange awkwardness of their form. Christine Daae, the ethereal creature who breathed and trembled just below his perch, held none of those characteristics. For as much as she worshiped him now in blind adoration of something she could not know, he worshiped her in every possible way, seeing her now bathed in the most unfeeling and whitewashed starkness of amplified light. She was perfection embodied.
He imagined what it would be like to brush the thick tangle of curls back from her shoulder with his bare hand, to feel their weight tumble through his outstretched fingers as they brushed against the warm skin beneath. He imagined how her skin would smell - powdery soft, lightly perfumed. The way she would yield in unquestioning acquiescence, her eyes heavy and accepting. Yes. Yes, anything. Whatever you ask.
"Tell me, what is it you would have me do?"
The laugh nearly escaped him, choked back as he pressed the back of his hand firmly to his mouth. The moment of unexpected levity... is this what happiness felt like? It wrapped around him, causing him such wanton thoughts and strange moments of giddy lightheadedness. Little, delicate, beautiful, coquettish... she was absolutely mesmerizing. Surely he could not be the only one to notice.
The realization slipped between his ribs and stabbed his heart like an icy dagger. He wouldn't be the only one to notice. The opera house was packed regularly with wealthy patrons, silly men who's youth and well-bred good looks often held the women in damp thrall. He saw the way they behaved, the corps de ballet, standing at the edge of the stage and courting the attentions and affections of the audience. More than once he had the poor judgment to walk the halls behind the private boxes, or the darkened corridors outside the private dressing rooms, after a final performance. When the emotional drain from the run coupled with over indulgent celebration. Often, he would avert his gaze from the shameless and flagrant couplings that seemed inevitable on those evenings. Later hearing the regretful tears of the girl forgotten. So caught up in the moment, her virtues forgotten and shoved aside with so many layers of crinoline. The older girls would always sympathize, nod understandingly, such things happen, it is the way of the stage.
He'd often wondered how drunk on spirits and applause one of them would have to be to seek out his affections.
But, there was truth in the words, such things happen. As long as there was performance there were beautiful performers and the men who adored them. Christine Daae would be no different. Her great beauty and her talent would make her a beacon in no time, attracting the attentions of every boxholder. She would demure, at first, as they always did. But it was only a matter of time before the right combination of wealth and rugged handsome features would seek her out. The thought of her, locked in embrace with one of the ridiculous men who haunted these halls...
"Obedience," he let out in a harsh whisper. Remembering himself, his breathing back under control, the voice turned soothing once again, "In order to learn as you desire, I must have absolute obedience. Nothing must turn your attentions from your studies, from your lessons. You will rise in the morning, you will go directly from your breakfast to your rehearsals here. And, after you have taken your dinner alone, you will return to me, leaving only when it is time for you to rest. No outside interferences. No hobbies. No other pursuits. No..." he took in a single shaky breath, "admirers. This is the price of glory. This is the bargain you will strike with me. In exchange I will elevate you to where you so desire. However, if you disobey, I will withdraw and you will never hear from me again..." his grip tightened on the railing beneath him. "Am I understood?"