Chapter Six: True Beauty

Christine drew a sharp intake of breath as she felt a hand come to rest on her shoulder. Whirling around to face the intruder, she put a hand to her heart and laughed softly as she realized her mistake. "Oh, Erik! You startled me."

Having donned the mask and wig again, he bore little resemblance to the man she had seen the night before. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought them two entirely different men.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. It was quite nice…I'm sorry for my intrusion last night. I was worried about you, and –"

"No, I am the one who should be apologizing. Please forgive my behavior…I was…not myself."

Actually, he had been himself, he thought. Very much so. He had shown her a part of himself that he had done his best to hide away from the all the world, a part of his past that he'd rather forget. She had caught a glimpse of the wide-eyed feral boy that he had once been…and yet, she had not been afraid.

"It's alright…I know how real dreams can be…I used to have horrible nightmares about my father's death. I would always wake up screaming."

"I know," he said quietly.

The girl smiled wistfully. "You used to sing me to sleep, remember? Your voice was always so beautiful…" Shaking her head, she brought herself back to the present. She walked over to the small table in the kitchen, pulling out a chair. "I took the liberty of preparing breakfast. I hope you don't mind…"

Erik stared at the food on the table, his mouth slightly agape. His eyes were filled with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

"Erik…?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to having someone prepare meals for me."

"Well, then, you shall have to appraise my cooking skills, though I'm afraid I'm not as good as you." She smiled. "Come." She reached for his hand but instantly drew back as though she had touched the cold, deadened fingers of a corpse. For the first time, now, she noticed his lips were tinged slightly blue, his skin a sickly yellow, as if all of the blood had been drained from him. She lifted a hand to his cheek, but it was as if she were caressing the face of a marble statue rather than the warm face of a man. "My goodness, Erik, you're freezing! What happened?"

He looked down, suddenly uncomfortable with meeting her gaze. "It's nothing, Christine. I went out for a short walk on the roof last night. That is all."

Christine was slowly beginning to understand. She looked up into his eyes. "You were out there all night, weren't you?" she whispered.

"The cold...helps," he attempted to explain. "It numbs the mind as well as the body."

"Why didn't you tell me? What were you thinking, going out there in such light clothing? You could become horribly ill! I don't understand why you would do such a thing to yourself…"

Erik closed his eyes, moderately irritated with her for reprimanding his only form of relief. Of course she didn't understand! How could she? "That is precisely why I did not tell you," he countered.

She reached for his shoulder. "Please don't be angry. I am only concerned for your sake."

Erik sighed. "I know. But your concern, though appreciated, is unnecessary. I shall be fine."

Christine eyed him suspiciously. She did not quite believe him, yet she did not wish to begin another argument, so she allowed the subject to drop. "Come along, then," she said, taking his hand. This time she did not draw back but interlaced her fingers with his own. "Breakfast is getting cold."

Christine dipped a rag into the soapy bucket of water and began scrubbing the plate in front of her, humming softly as she worked. As future wife of the Vicomte de Changy, she supposed she would soon have a maid doing such menial tasks for her, but she did not mind doing the chore herself. After they had finished eating, Christine had started to clear away the dishes only to have Erik insist that he do the cleaning since she was, after all, his guest. She had persisted, however, saying that because she had intruded upon his hospitality and taken the bed instead of the floor, it was the least she could do. He eventually relented on the condition that he do something for her in return and was currently fulfilling his end of the bargain. Christine closed her eyes and sighed contentedly, listening to the soft melody of the Swedish lullaby wash over her, his deep, strong voice resonating with the same heartfelt adoration and love she'd once heard in her father's voice, but there were hints of something more. Something he dared not speak aloud again but knew that she could sense. Music was a language they both understood.

I walk alone and wander here,

Looking for my friend.

I walk alone and wander here,

Looking for my friend.

Look, I meet her here,

She who holds my heart so dear.

Say if you will dance with me

As you did before.

Alone I walk on paths I know,

Looking for a friendly face.

Alone I walk on paths I know,

Looking for a friendly face.

I look to meet her once again,

The one whose love is in my heart.

I want to see you once again,

And dance again with you, my love. [1]

He was just beginning to sing the next verse when he was suddenly interrupted by a violent fit of coughing. Christine immediately left the dishes and rushed to his side.

"Erik, are you alright?"

Recovering himself, he felt the heat rise to his cheeks, embarrassed by his outburst. "I'm fine, Christine. It is only a cough."

She worriedly pressed a hand to his damp forehead. She had a feeling his face was flushed with more than embarrassment. "You're getting sick."

"I have survived much worse, I assure you. It will be gone in a few days' time."

"Perhaps I should stay a bit longer until you are well."
"Do not trouble yourself. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," he insisted. Though he would have loved to have her stay a few days longer, he knew it would only make things more difficult when the time came for her to leave.

"I know, but – "

"I'm not going to die from a little cough, Christine."

The words stung more than she knew he'd intended, but she could not stop herself from lashing out. "Fine! If you wish to kill yourself, Erik, then go ahead, but do not expect me to sit back and act as though I do not care!"

She whirled away, allowing the tears she'd been holding back to flow. She felt his hand on her shoulder, but she did not turn to look at him.

"Forgive me, Christine. I did not mean to upset you so."

Christine swallowed back the lump in her throat and nodded, reminding herself that he did not know the circumstances of her father's death. She took a deep breath. "One winter shortly after our arrival in Paris, my father fell ill. It started out as just a cough, but…but then it got worse. For months on end, he tried to convince me that it was only a cough, that he did not need a doctor because he knew we couldn't afford one, and I, being the foolish, naïve little girl that I was, believed him." Her lips trembled. "Perhaps if I had spoken up sooner, he would still be alive…" Finally, she faced him. "Please, Erik. I have already lost one of the men that I lo–" She caught herself before it was too late. "…That I care about. I do not wish to lose you, as well."

"I am truly sorry, Christine. I didn't realize…"

She shook her head. "You could not have known."

Erik sighed. He would regret this later. "You are always welcome in my home. You may stay as long as you wish."

Christine sat the cup of steaming hot tea on the table before him. The sassafras blend with sugar and honey would hopefully relieve the cough. There was little she could do for the other symptoms, but having a doctor examine him would be too much of a risk. She hoped and prayed it was only a bad cold and not the dreaded influenza. She gently pushed the cup toward him as he started coughing again. "Here. This should help."

"Thank you," he whispered. His usual melodic baritone voice had become hoarse and scratchy from all of the coughing. He took a tentative sip, the warm liquid soothing his throat, which burned like the parched sands of a desert. He closed his eyes, enjoying a brief moment of relief as the tea lingered in his throat. He hadn't been this sick in many years. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. Every muscle in his body ached. Everything that came into contact with his burning skin stung. If hell was worse than this, he thought, he certainly didn't want to spend eternity there. He returned the cup to the saucer and cradled his throbbing head in his hands, hoping to make the nauseating dizziness go away.

"Erik, I know you're not feeling well, but please try to eat something. You've barely touched your dinner."

"Forgive me." His words were somewhat distorted from his inability to breathe through his nose. He sniffed. "I'm afraid I have no appetite tonight."

"Come, then. Let's get you to bed."

He tried not to wince at the pinpricks of pain that shot up his arm where her fingers grazed his skin. Though he knew her touch was soft, it felt as though he was being stabbed by a thousand needles. Reluctantly, he pushed away from the table and steadied himself as Christine tried to help him stand. His head swam with the sudden change in position, and he gagged, fighting back the wave of nausea that had suddenly arisen. He took a few slow, deep breaths to calm the urge to vomit. He hated that Christine had to see him in such a state. If he looked even half as bad as he felt, he was certain he was hideous even with the mask, which he found increasingly loathsome. Already he had given up on the wig. It was simply too hot to wear in his fevered state. The mask, on the other hand, was not only uncomfortable but impractical. Trying to blow his nose with a mask on was not a pleasant experience, and quite frankly, it embarrassed him. But he simply could not bring himself to remove the mask in her presence. True, she had seen him that way more than once, but he had no intentions of her ever seeing him that way again.

"Are you alright?" The angelic voice broke through his thoughts.

"I'm fine." Well, "fine" was a bit of an overstatement.

"Do you think you can walk over to the bed?"

"I…don't know," he admitted.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulder for support, he took a few shaky steps forward before having to stop. He had only walked about ten feet and already he felt as though he had just finished running a marathon. He groaned. The bed seemed so…far…away… He took another half-hearted step before realizing that they were headed not to the storage room but to the swan bed.

"Christine," he protested weakly, "that is not my bed."

"For tonight it is."

"But – "

"Erik, you're sick. Sleeping on the cold floor is not going to help that. I'll find somewhere else to sleep." He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "And you're in no condition to argue, so don't try to tell me otherwise. It will just be for a few days, and then you can go back to sleeping on the floor until your heart is content."

He offered her a weak smile. "Oui, Madamoiselle."

Reaching the bed, he fairly collapsed onto the cushions and, closing his eyes, fell asleep almost immediately. Christine, having safely delivered him to the bed, returned briefly to the kitchen where she proceeded to clean the dishes and prepared a bucket of cool water, which along with a rag and a chair, she brought to the bedside. She sighed as she took her seat, dipping the rag into the bucket and wringing it out before bringing the cool cloth to his face. She hummed as she worked, recalling the melody of the Swedish lullaby he had sung for her two days before.

I look to meet him once again,

The one whose love is in my heart.

I want to see you once again,

And dance again with you, my love.

She smiled softly at his sleeping figure. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, so innocent and harmless, as if the years of hatred and isolation had been washed away, leaving only the man she saw before her. Gone was the Opera Ghost, the Phantom, with his murderous and wicked ways. Gone was the Angel of Music, his song of sweet deception weaving a web of lies. Now there was only Erik. He was not as suave and debonair as the Phantom, nor as hauntingly seductive as the Angel of Music. In fact, he was rather plain, and yet he was not unattractive. Now, as she watched him sleep, she realized that she had never truly looked at him before. She had been too blinded by first his charm and then his anger to see the man that lay beneath. Now she looked at him with opened eyes and saw that he was beautiful. Not unrealistically handsome as he had been as the Phantom, but naturally attractive. She noticed a lock of his hair – that honey-golden hair that didn't quite cover the right side of his head – draped across his damp brow and gently brushed it aside. His face was not so ugly. Certainly not the side that she could see, anyway. But there was still the matter of the mask. She wondered whether the right side of his face might not seem so horrid now that it was not contorted in anger or grief. Her fingers slid to edge of the mask, the cool porcelain a stark contrast against his burning skin. But then she stopped. Over the past few days the former Phantom had shown himself to be quite the gentleman. When she had first spent the night in the opera house, she had trusted him to preserve her virtue, and despite any feelings he may have had to the contrary, he had never taken advantage of her. This was his home, his sanctuary, and he had allowed her to stay here when she had nowhere else to go. Twice she had broken his trust, had exposed a part of him that he was not yet ready to show the world. What kind of person would she be to break that trust now, as he slept, sick with fever and barely able to stand? No, he was not entirely Erik yet. There was still that one part of him that he refused to show. It saddened her that after all they had been through, he still did not trust her not to jeer at or be disgusted by him. Perhaps someday he would be willing, and when that day came, she would be able to appreciate him – all of him – for who he was, but until then, she was satisfied just knowing that there was, indeed, a man behind the mask. Not a ghost. Not an angel. Just a perfectly imperfect beautiful man.

Erik lifted the handkerchief to his nose and sneezed for what must have been the hundredth time that day. On the whole he was feeling much better. Two days of sleeping in a real bed and receiving Christine's constant care had made a large improvement in his condition. He no longer ached or burned as he had before, but while the fever had declined, the coughing and sneezing had only gotten worse. Christine had assured him that that was a good sign that he was nearly over the sickness, but Erik wasn't so sure. He almost preferred the aching to the constant embarrassment of wiping snot from his nose and mask. He could only imagine how disgusted she must be. He lay back down and rested his head against the pillow.

"Ugh," he sighed. "How much longer am I to endure this? I cannot breathe! And this cursed mask is certainly not helping!" Oh, how he loathed that mask right now. He wanted to rip it off his face and throw it across the room. But, of course, that couldn't happen.

Christine hesitated. "You could…take it off…"

"No."

"But if you cannot breathe, then – "

Erik was suddenly angry. "Why do you insist on humiliating me? Can you not see that I am wretched enough as it is?"

"Why do you insist on making yourself miserable? Do you still believe that I am so superficial and insensitive as to mock you, Erik? Do you wish to keep it on because you are afraid of what I will see or because you are afraid of what you will see when at last it is removed? Who are you hiding from, Erik – the world or yourself?" She came to the side of the bed and rested her hand on his. "No one can ever love you for who you are unless you are willing to show them, Erik."

Erik closed his eyes. If only she knew how horribly it frightened him for his face to be seen. His face had killed a man – his face! How could he bare to show it again? "You don't understand what it's like…what I've been through… The laughing, the gawking… The mask is my only refuge, my sanctuary. It makes me feel…safe."

"Is it a sanctuary or a prison, which has barred you from the world? True beauty lies in a man's heart, not his outward appearance."

He gave a half-hearted laugh. "Then you must find me truly repulsive. Did you not say yourself that my soul has been distorted even more so than my face?"

Christine took a deep breath. "At one time I believed that to be true, but a man's heart is subject to change… He has made all things beautiful in His time – including you, Erik." Slowly, she brought her hands to his face, cradling his cheeks between her palms.

Erik froze.

Her fingers traced the edge of the mask but made no attempt to remove it. "May I?"

He was surprised by her request. Most who had seen his face did not dare to look at it any more than necessary. Why would she, who had seen his monstrosity not once but twice, ask to see it again? Perhaps she was drawn to his deformity for the same reason that the spectators had come to see him as the Devil's Child…He was a freak, an abomination, and oddity on display like an item at a curio shop…Yet she had never treated him as they had. She had a kind and loving heart, not their sick sense of humor. It baffled him. He'd had plenty of people tell him to put the mask on. A few times someone had torn it off without asking, either out of innocent curiosity or intentional malice. But no one had ever asked him for permission to remove his mask. Slowly, he nodded, swallowing back the intense fear that had gripped his chest and closing his eyes.

"You may."

The soft, cool tips of her fingers slipped gently beneath the mask. Slowly, carefully, she peeled it back and placed it to the side. The moment the cool air touched his exposed face, he tensed. Certainly, it was a relief to have the mask off, but what of Christine? He opened his eyes to see her staring down at him with a strange expression he could not read. It was not quite pity, nor was it disgust, but he could not seem to place the emotion. He looked away in shame.

"Am I as hideous as you remember?" he spat.

The girl examined his face, running her fingers over the deformed flesh, from his naked scalp to his smooth chin. The skin was red and lumpy, pocked with pits and clammy with sweat. The skin below his eye was strangely stretched so that his right eye remained open wider than his left. Before, she might have gasped at the sight, but now she softly smiled. He had chosen to trust her, to share with her a part of him he had never willingly shared with anyone else. Now, as she looked into his eyes, there was neither hatred nor wicked desire to distort his features, and though they were not necessarily handsome, they were not nearly as horrible as she had once thought.

"No," she murmured softly.

The look in her tear-filled eyes was warm and inviting, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Could it be…love…?

She leaned down, bringing her lips close to his right ear, her cheek slightly brushing against his face. "You are perfect," she whispered.

Kinder words had never been spoken to him, and Erik could not contain his emotion. Against his will, a tear slipped down his left cheek, and suddenly her lips were on his face, gently kissing away the tear, her warm breath tickling his cheek. He drew a sharp intake of breath, surprised by her action. Another tear slipped free, this time on his right, and without hesitation, she kissed it as well. Now he began openly weeping. She had kissed him on the cheek! On the very deformity that his own mother could not bear to see. As the tears continued to fall, she treated each wet track the same, moving in a line across his face until at last she came to his lips. Closing her eyes, she pressed her own soft, full lips against his. He broke down completely. Before, she acted out of pity, not passion. Before, she had pretended to love him so that her true love might go free. This time, he hadn't forced her affections. This time, there was no pity in her gaze. She had no reason to kiss him and yet…she had done so of her own free will. Without his wig, without his mask, with a runny nose and tears streaming down his face, she had kissed him.

He returned the kiss, hungrily, passionately. He felt her fingers run through his hair and placed his own hand behind her head, his fingers tangling in her silky curls. He was nearly out of breath, unable to breathe through his nose from the cold or his mouth from her incessant kisses, but he couldn't have cared less. If her sweet lips were the ones to draw the last breath from his lungs, he would certainly die a happy man. His prayers had at last been answered. He finally knew what it was to be loved.

[1] This song is actually a slightly modified version of a real traditional Swedish lullaby called "I Walk Alone and Wander Here." I thought it fit Erik & Christine perfectly :)