Chapter Five: Beneath the Wings of an Angel

Christine was the first to pull back from the embrace. Reluctantly, Erik let his arm go slack, allowing his fingers to trail the small of her back as he returned the hand to his side and turned away to replace the mask. Once again, Christine allowed him his privacy, turning to face him only when he permitted. For a moment they were silent, neither one quite certain what to say. Finally, Christine spoke up.

"I've had a wonderful time this evening, Erik, but I really should be getting back soon. Thank you for the dinner. It was lovely." He noticed that she pointedly avoided speaking about the events which had transpired after dinner and was exceedingly grateful for it. "Have you any idea what time it is?"

"Time is irrelevant down here, Christine. The sun's rays do not penetrate this deep. There is no rising or setting of the sun to mark the time, no way to distinguish daylight from darkness. But the hour is late. It is already after midnight."

"Midnight?" Christine's eyes widened visibly. "Oh, dear! I should have been back hours ago! But I don't think I shall be able to catch a coach at this hour…Perhaps I could walk back. It isn't so terribly far…"

"NO!" Christine startled at his sudden outburst, and he lowered his voice, realizing that he had sounded a bit more forceful than he'd intended. "You are a single young woman. A beautiful young woman, at that. It would be dangerous for you to walk back alone."

"Then you'll come with me?"

He sighed. "Christine, if you are seen with me, we are both as good as dead."

"Well, if I cannot catch a coach and I cannot walk back, then what am I to do?"

Erik paused, a thought forming in his mind. Christine would not like it, but… "You could stay here for the night."

Christine's face fell. "Oh…That's very kind of you, Erik, but I really don't think I should…"

She looked slightly paler than usual, slightly frightened. He knew that it was not himself that she feared so much as the fact that he was a man with a man's desires. To be quite honest, he was a bit frightened at the thought himself. Could he truly restrain himself through the long hours of the night, knowing that she was only a few feet away? He shook his head. No, he would not – could not – force himself on her no matter how much he desired her. He loved her too much for that.

"Do not worry, Christine. I will not do anything untoward, nor detain you any longer than necessary. You may return home first thing tomorrow morning."

"But Madame Giry – "

"She knows that you are here, correct?"

"Yes…"

"And she knows that I am here, as well. I do not think she will send out a search party if you are gone for one night."

Christine frowned, looking slightly irritated. "Do I even get a choice in the matter?"

Erik winced. "Christine, you are my…friend…" The word seemed foreign on his tongue. "Not my prisoner. You are free to go and come as you wish. I am simply trying to keep you safe."

She thought for a moment. Perhaps it would be possible for her to stay in her old dorm room upstairs. Then again, if it looked anything like the rest of the place...The girl looked down sheepishly, her cheeks flushed pink. "Where…where would you sleep?"

"You may sleep on the bed. I will sleep on the floor in the storage room."

"Oh, no!" Christine shook her head. "I am the one intruding on your hospitality. I will sleep on the floor."

"I won't hear of it!"

"But – "

"Christine, believe me when I tell you that I have slept in much worse conditions in my life. One more night on the floor will not kill me."

She bit her lip. What would Raoul think?

Erik noticed her discomfort. "You said before that you wished for me to trust you, but if I am to feel at ease with you, Christine, you must also trust me."

Christine took a deep breath. "Alright. I'll stay."

Erik softly draped his cape over Christine's sleeping form and pulled the cord to close the black lace curtains surrounding the bed. Taking one last glance, he turned and, sighing, walked toward the storage room, blowing out the last of the candles on his way. He didn't need a candle to find his way in the dark. He had been living in the dungeons of the opera house for nearly twenty years and had designed the layout of his underground home himself. He knew every crack and crevice of this place by heart.

Arriving in the storage room, he shoved a few boxes aside and sat down on the cold stone floor, removing his shoes and stockings. Next came the mask. He hated to take it off, even now in the darkness when no one could see, because it served as a reminder of what lay underneath. He could pretend all day long that he was normal, that he was a handsome, roguish opera ghost to be feared and respected, but at the end of the day, the illusion broke down and he was once again just Erik, the freak with a face not even his mother could love, the frightened little boy who, in a moment of fear and anger, had killed his master and so locked himself into a lifetime of crimes he'd rather not remember. The circus master had deserved it, perhaps, but many of the others had not. They had been innocent bystanders who, as Christine put it, had been "in the wrong place at the wrong time."

But I had no other choice, didn't I? The thought of having blood on his hands had never bothered him much before, but tonight for some reason, it weighed heavy on his mind. Why would Christine ever choose me, a murderer, over someone like him?

He shook the thoughts from his head and carefully set the mask on one of the boxes where it would be easily within reach but not at risk of being stepped on should he need to get up in the night.

At last, the wig came off. Ordinarily, he would have set it on one of the model heads he kept so as to keep its shape and prevent it from being unnecessarily mussed, but tonight he simply laid it near the mask. He supposed he could have slept with it on – perhaps he should have with Christine here – but it was itchy and uncomfortable, and he could only imagine what a mess it would be in the morning if he slept on it. Having completed the nightly ritual, he ran his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and sticking up at odd angles, and he was thankful that he could not see what he looked like at the moment – even more thankful that Christine could not see!

Finally, he lowered himself to the floor, folding his arms beneath his head so that he was staring up at the ceiling – well, actually, the floor – of the opera house. The floor was cold and hard beneath his back, the bricks uneven and damp with an earthy smell. Already he had likely soiled the back of his light cotton shirt, the pure white fabric streaked brown and green from the filth that seeped into the cracks of the floor from the ground beneath. Still, it was not the worst place he had ever slept…At least this time he was not in cage, the cold steel bars closing in around him as he'd huddled in the straw like an animal. No, this time he was willingly on the floor. This time, he was doing it for Christine. Knowing that she was just on the other side of the wall was both a comfort and a distraction. She was so close, and yet at the same time so very far away, just out of his reach, just out of his arms. It was enough to drive a man insane! Sighing, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to wander over the possibilities of a future he knew he could never have. There was very little chance he'd be getting any sleep tonight.

The minister's dark robes rustled as he turned to face the accused, jabbing a long, bony finger in the boy's direction.

"You, Master Erik, have been accused of MURDER!" His booming voice echoed through the cathedral, taunting the child. "MURDER!...Murder!...murder!"

The young Erik cowered under the robed man's gaze. "I-I didn't mean to…I-it was an accident!"

He felt a sharp sting in his left cheek as the back of the clergyman's hand connected with his face, sending him staggering backwards. "Insolent boy! Do not speak unless spoken to! Is that understood?"

The five year-old raised a hand to his cheek, rubbing the spot where the man's ring had hit his cheekbone and nodded solemnly, his vision blurring with tears.

"Witnesses report," the steel-haired man continued, "that you killed the man merely by looking into his eyes. We had a word for that back in my day – WITCHCRAFT!" He stepped forward, the orange light of the fire reflecting the malice in his cold, blue eyes. "Do you know, Erik, what happens to witches?"

The child shook his head, eyes wide with fear.

Ripping the poorly made cloth mask from the boy's face, he threw it into the flames. "Witches BURN!"

Erik scrambled to cover his face, stumbling into a deacon who had been watching the proceeding with disapproval but had, thus far, remained silent. Terrified of the repercussions of his mistake, he backed up, tripping over the stairs that led to the altar and landing at the bottom with a sickening thud. The child made no move to get up but curled into a tight ball, wrapping his arms around his knees and ducking his head against his chest, weeping softly.

"Get up," the minister ordered. When the boy did not respond, he stomped down the stairs and grabbed the child by the arm, yanking him to his feet. "I said GET UP, you little demon!"

"ENOUGH!" The deacon's voice echoed off the church walls. Gathering the frightened young Erik into his arms, he glared at the man in front of him. "Father Destler, this cannot continue! Can't you see the poor boy is frightened out of his mind?"

The minister shook a weathered finger at the child's face. "He bares the mark of the Devil! He has killed a man without even touching him. There is but one explanation – SORCERY!"

"Your methods are outdated, Father. The last supposed witch in France was destroyed nearly a hundred years ago! [1] Such foolish belief in superstition and twisted interpretation of the Word is what drives men from the church! Monsieur du Pre was an old man. The child's deformity merely startled him, and his poor old heart couldn't take it. Do not blame the boy for your mistakes!"

"She seduced me with her siren's call! The woman is a sorceress, and I will have her burn for her crimes!"

"You have no proof of that."

"She confessed!"

"Because you threatened her!"

"SILENCE!" Father Destler narrowed his eyes. "Hold your tongue or I will have you excommunicated for defying the work of God!"

"This is not the work of God! This is MURDER!"

"An eye for an eye…"

"You heard the child himself! He had no intentions of harming the old man. Chastise him if you must, but do not take the life of your own – "

"That thing is the child of SATAN!" The priest's face had gone purple with rage.

"Do you truly wish to die with the blood of a child – any child – on your hands, Father?"

For a moment, the robed man did not respond. At long last, he sighed. "There is a travelling gypsy circus in town. I'm certain they would be more than happy to add him to their…collection…You will take him into town tomorrow."

"But, Father, I – "

"It's either the gypsies or the flames!"

The deacon clenched his jaw. "I will not see this boy die for a crime he did not commit."

"Very well. You will leave at the first light of dawn. Do not let anyone see you. Make it look like he escaped."

The deacon turned to leave, his arm still wrapped around the frightened child, when he felt a hand grip his shoulder.

"Not yet." The minister glared at the child. "Come, Erik."

The boy hesitated, clinging to the deacon.

"COME!"

Reluctantly, the child obeyed, releasing his grip on the deacon and reaching for the leathery hand of the minister, who grabbed the boy by the wrist and began dragging him to the door.

"It is time for your punishment." Opening the door, he flung the child into the street where a crowd of spectators had gathered to await the priest's decision, gasping and whispering at the sight of the boy's face. Facing the crowd, he produced a whip and raised his hand for silence. When the crowd had hushed, he spoke in a loud, booming voice. "This boy has been found guilty of murder and sorcery, the penalty for which is DEATH! His mother has confessed to consorting with Satan. Tomorrow they shall burn at the stake!" The audience cheered, eager for violence, eager for blood. The priest looked down at the child. "Remove your shirt, boy." As the five year-old was stripped of his clothing, he raised the whip high over his head. "Let this be a lesson to you all! This is what becomes of those who dare to defy the Word of God!"

The leather sliced through the air with perfect precision. Erik hissed in pain as the whip bit into his tender skin, leaving an angry red welt in its wake.

The priest raised the whip again. "Behold the punishment of the wicked!"

Erik screamed.

"Behold the fate of those who sin!" The whip came down a third time.

The boy was sobbing.

"Behold the DEVIL'S CHILD!"

The beating continued until he was too weak to stand, tears streaming down his face and blood running down his back. "I'm sorry," he cried brokenly. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt that man. What did I do wrong?"

The priest's face darkened as he turned to leave. "You were born."

"Erik?"

Someone was shaking him, but he couldn't tell who it was. He was drenched in sweat and choking on his tears. He felt nauseated from the pain, dizzy from the loss of blood.

"Erik?"

Perhaps it was an angel calling his name. Perhaps he had died from the beating and Father Destler had been wrong about him being the Devil's Child. But if this was heaven, why did he still feel so awful?

"Erik, wake up!"

His eyes flew open to reveal a young woman with copper brown curls, a look of concern in her eyes and a candle in one hand. Instinctively, his hand flew to his face, and he scrambled to his feet, backing into a corner and snarling like a wild animal.

"Erik, it's alright, now. No one is going to hurt you."

He saw her hand coming for his arm and flinched. He had been expecting the girl to hit him, but her touch was surprisingly gentle.

"It's just me…Christine."

"Christine…" Suddenly, he was back in the present. The stains on his back were from dirt, not blood. He was on the floor of his storage room beneath the opera house, not on the streets of Nord. Panting heavily, he closed his eyes. "Go back to bed, Christine."

"Are you sure you're alright? I heard screaming, and – "

"I'm fine!" he snapped.

"Perhaps I could make you some tea or something to help you sleep?"

Erik looked perturbed, his right hand still shielding his face. "Good night, Christine!"

She stood to leave, smiling sadly. "Good night, Erik. I hope you're feeling better in the morning."

It was cold. Horribly, unbearably cold. Erik shivered as he stepped out onto the roof, his wet shirt clinging to his skin and doing very little to block the icy blast of wind from the North. A light snow had fallen during the night, but now the sky was clear, the full moon's light making the snow glitter like diamonds that put the pinpricks of light in the heavens to shame. His breath came in tiny puffs of warm mist, swirling and vanishing within a matter of seconds. He would have loved to admire the beauty of the night if it had not been so frigid. Already his fingers were numb, but he made no attempt to warm them. Soon, he would lose the feeling in his toes, too. Gradually, the icy winter air would consume him, spreading up his arms and legs until at last he'd be chilled to the core, miserably cold, blissfully cold. He would become so cold that he could no longer feel at all, so cold that he could think of nothing but warmth, his mind becoming as numb as the rest of his body. Cold was a great healer, it turned out. Not just for physical injuries but for emotional ones, as well. He had discovered this trick as a boy during his first winter in a cage, shirtless. His owners had thought they were punishing him, but in truth, they had given him relief. The cold had been agonizing, but the pain had disappeared. Cold, he decided, was much easier to deal with than pain. He could feel the numbness coming, the blissful state of unawareness which made him immune to the memories that clung to him like garments, but it wasn't quite cold enough yet. He could still feel the sting of the whip in his mind. Taking another step forward, he suddenly slipped on a patch of ice and, reeling, tumbled backwards, landing on his back with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. And suddenly, he was a little boy again in the cathedral, looking up into the cold, unfeeling eyes of the priest from the bottom of the stairs. This time, he did not remain on the ground. This time, he would fight back. Cursing as he stood, he glared at the heavens, hurling insults at the sky.

"Do You find that amusing?" he screamed. "Do You enjoy watching Your creation suffer?" He was panting hard, shaking with cold and uncontrolled rage. He packed a wad of snow and threw it with all his might at an unseen enemy. "YOU MADE ME THIS WAY! How can You hate me for that?" Tears of anger, of hatred and bitterness were streaming down his cheeks. "Where were You when I was rotting away in that cage?" He kicked a small snowdrift, sending a shower of white powdery flakes into the air. "Where were You when I cried out to You every night, begging for mercy, begging for love? Where were You when I was mocked and beaten and spat upon? Where were You? WHERE WERE YOU?"

Vaguely he recalled a story he'd once heard of another Man who had suffered much the same. He had taken His undeserved punishment quietly, condemned for being the Son of God. Erik had responded to his undeserved punishment with revenge, condemned for being the son of Satan. And a son of Satan he surely must have been, for he could not bear to think that that man was his father.

"I am NOT a god like You! I am not an angel, nor hardly even a man by society's standards. How can You expect me to love in spite of such hatred? If You were truly a merciful and loving God, You would have let me die!"

He turned his head upwards, looking up to the sky, arms open wide. "KILL ME!" It was more of a plea than a taunt. "KILL ME! If You hate me, then You may take pleasure in sending me to Hell, and if You love me, then You may take pleasure in giving me release. Only kill me, please." He fell to his knees, legs giving way beneath him from the numbness of the cold. "Oh, God!" He choked back a sob. "God, have mercy on me. God help me…"

The cold was beginning to seep in. He could feel the deadness of his limbs creeping slowly into his chest, into his mind. It wouldn't be long now. Taking a seat in the snow, he huddled against the wall, curling into a little ball, his knees hugged tightly against his chest. Willingly, he gave in as cold and fatigue worked their magic, the harsh winter wind whispering a lullaby as it swept the streets of Paris. His eyelids grew heavy, and at long last, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. Had he taken the time to look where he had fallen, he might have noticed the large angel statue standing guard over his sleeping form, her arms held high in heavenly entreaty, her wings spread wide in the wind.

[1] The last recorded witch trial and legal witch lynching in France occurred around 1745, but a few sporadic witch-hunts may have taken place until as late as the 1830s when it was reported that a woman in Nord was burned for being a sorceress. Erik's backstory is based very loosely on this incident, his mother being the supposed witch. Father Destler is based on Judge Frollo from The Huntchback of Notre Dame (Disney movie version), though their stories are separated by hundreds of years. I realize that witch-hunts were highly uncommon by the 1800s, but I felt that, for this particular story, the situation was appropriate.