Chapter 14 - Seal My Fate Tonight

Over the years, Erik had the opportunity to observe many dramas unfold upon the stage, the scenes played out by an endless parade of performers. Most actors truly did seem to give it their all. But some, he had noticed, had a way of letting the work flow right through them, hitting all their marks and singing all the right notes, while never fully inhabiting the character. The body would be there under the stage lights, manipulating props and dancing in front of the painted backdrops and duetting with their partners, but the heart and soul were somewhere else entirely.

At times, especially when the actors were simply bored or lazy, this was glaringly obvious, and the audience would walk away from the theater grumbling, feeling cheated. Often, though, the audience was none the wiser.

But Erik could always tell. Watching from the eaves or concealed in secret places, nothing escaped his notice. Usually, he found such acting offensive.

Usually — but not always.

He had learned from his years of sharp-eyed observation that there were those who appeared at first glance to be part of that group, but who were in truth something altogether different.

These rare cases tended to be those who had begun their career with a tender heart, pouring their entire soul into their song. The result could be transcendent — as he experienced with young Mademoiselle Daaé — but it could also be a very naive, very costly mistake, and those who'd learned that lesson had learned it well.

Their covert disconnection was born of simple self-preservation.

Such actors were not jaded, they were wise, and they knew the dark truth of theater: some dramas can carve up the heart as skillfully as any knife. They understood that if they weren't careful, by the end of their career they would have nothing of themselves left, having bled it all out onto the floorboards.

The solution was to not allow yourself to feel it — to not let it become real. It was difficult work, an invaluable skill — and one Erik was quite familiar with.

It was why his hands were so steady as he tucked in the last corner of the freshly laundered linen sheet. It was also why, were he to make a trip to the surface at exactly nine o' clock and find no one there waiting, perhaps because they'd finally come to their senses and backed out of this ridiculous plan, it would hardly be a disappointment.

And it certainly wouldn't be a heart-breaking, soul-crushing disaster.

That wasn't only self-preservation talking, either; it was also cold, hard logic.

When Erik had opened the note passed through Giry, he'd stared at the two brief sentences in stunned silence for an immeasurable length of time. At some point — he couldn't say when, though he suspected it had taken a while for his ears to register the sound — he'd begun to laugh. Had he ever laughed so hard before in his life? He thought not; it's not as if there had been all that much to find funny over the course of his bleak existence.

He laughed and he laughed until tears flowed, and the tears kept flowing, long past when the laughter dried up. It felt silly and shameful but also cathartic and so very good to feel again.

She had agreed.

It couldn't be true, but it was. He would see her again, and not because he was the one to force it to happen. She had come to him.

Or something close enough to that, anyway.

Early on, there had been guilty fantasies of a stolen glimpse from afar, perhaps as she stepped out of her carriage to take a walk in the sun, her excruciatingly lovely face tipped up to drink in its golden warmth. Never, not even in those fantasies, did he imagine that they would be close enough to speak.

To touch.

To—

And it was exactly then that he remembered just what it was that she'd agreed to. He could have laughed again at the absurdity of it, but suddenly it didn't seem so funny.

The next morning, things were much more clear. It was absurd. It made absolutely no sense, none at all — that was what Nadir had said, and he was right.

Nothing about this made sense. Nothing about this added up.

But what can one do when one has every reason to doubt, yet can't bear to extinguish that stubborn little flame of hope? The best course of action, Erik decided, was to become an actor, playing the part of himself — detached, not truly inhabiting the role — and let the drama unfold.

He could only hope that with enough focus and enough skill, the audience would be none the wiser.

Erik ran a hand over the bedspread, smoothing the last little wrinkles from the black silk. It was as good as it was going to get. Not that he was sure it would even matter. He added one last pillow, and then, after a moment's consideration, snatched it off and tucked it away in the wardrobe. There were plenty of pillows already. Too many, perhaps.

Wait...were there too many?

Oh god — he collapsed on the bed, ruining all his careful work — what was he doing? He already felt like a complete fool, and he hadn't even been proven one yet.

At least he wouldn't have to hear about it from Nadir. That is, assuming he survived the likely fatal blow of mortifying rejection to see him again.

Nadir had served as Erik's first audience, and his debut performance could not have gone better, although, in fairness, that role would have been undemanding enough for even an amateur to play with reasonable success. Erik broke the five days of stony silence with a peace offering of an exceptionally good bottle of Bordeaux, and with no reason to bring up their prior discussion and plenty else to distract themselves with, they fell right back into their old, easy patterns. They actually were in need of a particular type of Venetian glass to repair a broken window, so Erik didn't feel the least bit guilty about sending Nadir off to Italy the day before he'd arranged to meet with Monsieur le Vicomte. It was simply a matter of convenient timing.

Despite the fact that their age gap made them closer to brothers, Nadir — Erik had a feeling — saw him as something of a wayward son, in need of a firm, fatherly hand to guide him. It was a dynamic that Erik might have taken issue with, but he knew that the loss of his actual son was an invisible, yet immeasurably heavy weight Nadir carried with him every moment of every day, and he wondered if perhaps it gave him some little relief to have someone to look after in that way.

And, though he would never admit to it out loud, Erik found that it was also something of a relief to be looked after, as well.

Nadir had been so adamant that Erik not get involved because he wanted to protect him. Erik understood and he did appreciate it, but it really wasn't necessary, especially not now that he'd begun to perfect his craft. Even if this idea did turn out as "spectacularly horrible" as Nadir predicted, Erik was in no danger so long as he just kept moving through the scenery, untouched by real feeling.

Erik's second performance — his meeting with the vicomte — had been a true tour de force. There had been a few minor instances where he may have fumbled his lines, going off script and allowing those hated cracks in his carefully-cultivated façade to let something genuine seep out, but on the whole, it had been a triumph. Knowing the whole thing was nothing but a ridiculous farce, he'd been determined to at least have some fun with it, and despite the years that had passed, taunting the little vicomte and watching him squirm was still an unparalleled delight. Perhaps the satisfaction was like a fine wine, only becoming sweeter and more complex as time went by.

If he'd expected the encounter to give him any clarity, however, he'd been sorely disappointed. The only thing the vicomte had managed to make clear was that he was controlling, demanding, and desperate to keep the one he loved at all costs — as it turned out, they did have a few things in common.

But there had been one critical asset which Erik possessed that the vicomte apparently did not: an appreciation for the importance of precision of language.

It was no secret that Erik was an unashamed opportunist; he would never try to pretend otherwise. Tantalizing opportunities had begun to present themselves as quickly as the litany of rules and requests had passed through the boy's quivering lips, though exactly how they could be taken advantage of was still as uncertain as whether or not he'd even have the chance to try to find out.

Erik removed his mask and ran his hands over his bare face; the air was cool and soothing on his flushed skin. He needed to think clearly and honestly, and if he couldn't be honest with himself in this unguarded state, then perhaps he had no chance at honesty at all.

The truth, he hated to have to admit, was that one of those "minor instances" of letting his guard down during that meeting was not such a minor thing at all, and the closer the hands on the clock ticked toward nine, the more he began to wonder if her not showing up would really be the worse of the two scenarios.

It had been, he now realized, a senseless mistake to ask how she had come to agree to the plan. Erik could try to tell himself that he'd hoped the answer would be disheartening enough to keep him detached, but the fact of it was that he simply couldn't resist. He didn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't anything as brutally wonderful as hearing that she wanted to see him. It was a rush of oxygen to that flickering flame of hope, and the resulting flare was so hot and bright that it physically hurt. Perhaps he had been right before: it would be for the best if it were extinguished, only this time so completely there could never be any possibility of it rekindling.

Even better, he could be the one to put a stop to all of this madness. He could take the late train back to Brussels and never come back to this place, and continue to live out his newly-built life. One of small, simple pleasures and even, easy emotions. A life that was quiet and predictable and just good enough.

Erik stood and replaced his mask, the rigid contours of the porcelain pressing into the sensitive twisted flesh beneath. He could do that, yes — but what Opera Ghost worth the title could resist the lure of a grand drama, even knowing full well it might end in tragedy?

With hands now even steadier than before, Erik swiftly fixed the mess he'd made of the bedding and had started to turn to go when he paused, taking one last lingering look back.

Then, with a few long, purposeful strides and a decisive sweep of his arm, he sent all but a few pillows tumbling onto the floor and kicked them soundly under the bed.

Really, it had been a ridiculous number of pillows.

…

He'd left his pocket watch behind on purpose. In the too-quiet passage where he waited, hidden in the shadows just beyond the checkered beams of streetlight falling through the grate, its incessant ticking would have driven him mad.

Not that he would have had to listen to it for long. He had only managed a few rounds of deep breaths before the screech of the rusted iron hinges echoed off the stone walls of the passage, catching him mid-inhale.

She was here.

He knew it the moment the figure stepped into the passage.

He felt it.

But he couldn't believe it.

Covered in a hooded cloak and lit from behind, she was a dark ghost, inexplicably raised from the ruined graveyard of his tortured mind.

That was the only reasonable explanation, anyway.

But then a second, larger figure stepped forward and hooked a protective arm around the little ghost, and she looked undeniably solid in that possessive grip.

She was here and it might never make sense but in the moment sense didn't seem like something that mattered in the least, and it was fortunate that Erik had attained such mastery over those silly, unnecessary emotions of his, or perhaps he would have cried right then and there from the sheer relief of it. Or perhaps from some other feeling quite the opposite of relief which he didn't want to recognize, not now. Not when it was far too late for second thoughts.

So instead he calmly finished his inhale, counted to five, exhaled slowly, and stepped out of the dark.

"Erik."

The two men faced each other, the blessedly corporeal apparition with the shadowed face silent between them.

"Vicomte."

And then, without another word, they descended into the underworld, careful not to look back.

...

Like each one prior, the final leg of the journey was made in complete silence, except for the intermittent plunk and splash of the pole dipping in and out of the water, propelling the boat to glide along the dark glass surface of the lake with rhythmic strokes. Erik kept his eyes trained on their destination, glancing down at the couple huddled together only once. Or maybe twice. And as they disembarked, he focused on the cold, heavy chain slipping through his fingers as he secured the boat, and most definitely not on the sight of her delicate little hand clasped securely in her husband's broad, tanned hands as he helped her onto the dock.

They climbed the steps to the narrow walkway which ran parallel to the lake, bordered on its opposite side by a featureless stone wall. At the point where the faint rippling light reflecting off the water began to fade into complete darkness, Erik motioned for them to stop, and with the stealthy work of a practiced hand, he tripped the hidden mechanism. The vicomte took a stumbling step backwards at the sudden jarring clunk and grind of the stones as they slid apart to reveal the secret passage leading to the door, rewarding Erik with a gratifying surge of warmth from breastbone to fingertips. He hadn't actually needed to close it in the first place, given that he was only planning on being gone a short time, but Erik was aware of how startling the effect could be, and well...some pleasures truly never grow old.

With his shoulders set a little straighter after that small, petty victory, Erik opened the door and stepped aside, performing a sweeping bow as he welcomed the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny into his home. A bow, he had to admit, that was blatantly theatrical and borderline-mocking and was likely taking the act a touch too far, but it did give him a good excuse to keep his eyes on the floor as they passed by.

He straightened up and turned toward the room, and all at once he found that couldn't tell if it was the rush of blood back into his head that made his vision swim, or the fact that she was actually — wondrously, inexplicably, but actually — standing there in his parlor. And before he could blink the room back into stationary submission, her hands were on the hem of her hood and in one of those breathless moments of dramatic cliché where time stops and the orchestra swells and the lovers are reunited — a convention which he usually detested but which now felt so authentic and so beautiful and yet so unbearably, heart-rendingly painful — she lifted the hood back from her shadowed face and let it drop onto her shoulders.

Thank god he'd still had his hand on the doorknob or his buckling knees would have had him on the floor before he'd even known what hit him.

She was even more dazzling than he remembered, and whether that was because of the fading of his memory or because her radiance had only continued to increase over the years he did not know. What he did know — a realization that struck him like a slap upside the head and left him just as dizzy — was that he was not only one of the world's ugliest men but also one of its stupidest.

How could he have thought for even a minute that he would be able to play this ridiculous role without engaging his heart and soul, when the one person who had ever seen into his sorry, broken soul, and who had held his damaged heart in her gentle hands would be his scene partner? The realization left him flooded with mortifying contrition, yet the acknowledgment and acceptance of it felt pure and divine, and he could have fallen to his knees, begging her forgiveness and pitifully laying that imperfect heart and soul at her feet — if not for her damnable husband standing right there, watching them both with narrowed eyes.

With a long, low exhale, Erik turned to close the door, in desperate need of the opportunity to pull himself together.

Very well...he had been delusional and horribly misguided. That was nothing new. It didn't mean that he had to let it affect him the way it might have back in the days before he'd committed to careful self-control. Maybe he'd fooled himself into getting involved in this dangerous game, but she was here now and he would never back out; he would simply have to play along and see this thing through to its uncertain conclusion, with the only certainty that even if it ended as badly as it possibly could, it would have all been worth it just to have had seen her face this one more time.

But for now...perhaps keeping his eyes off her face would be best, if he hoped to keep any semblance of composure.

And so, as he swung back around to face his guests, Erik kept his gaze lowered, letting it rest instead on her hands, which were buried in her skirts — twisting and pinching and pulling and gripping the smooth silk.

Ah.

Erik set his jaw and looked up from those pale, clutching hands to see the vicomte eyeing him in that anxious, assessing way he often did. That wary gaze flicked to his silent wife and then back again to Erik, and he cleared his throat. "Well, I don't think there's any way of making this less uncomfortable, so I'd prefer if we forgo the pleasantries and just get it over with, if that works for you." The vicomte took his wife by the arm. "Now, if you'll be so good as to show us to the— the ah, wherever it is that you intend to..."

Gesturing toward the hall, Erik led them to the room he'd prepared, filled with his poor, dead mother's furniture, the bed itself the likely site of his unfortunate conception, realizing too late that the choice of setting was all but tempting fate.

Ushering his wife in before him, the vicomte turned and gave Erik a look which left no doubt that he was not meant to follow.

That was just fine with him; he needed the time to think.

Because, finally, things were adding up.

He knew it the moment he saw those small hands working the fabric of her skirts — an unconscious tell he had picked up on back in the days of dressing room lessons, when the Angel of Music's keen eyes never left her for a moment and had memorized the meaning of her every movement.

She was uncertain.

Finally, it all made sense.

She had not agreed to this whole-heartedly.

And that meant one of two things: either she agreed under duress, in which case he would finally have to kill the despicable little vicomte, or...she had agreed for some other reason, without wanting to follow through. In either case, he would have to get to the bottom of it when they were alone.

The soft click of a latch told Erik that he was out of time to figure out the best way to do so, however.

He turned toward the sound just in time to see the vicomte press his palm to the closed door, his darkly-circled eyes squeezed shut. Erik pivoted away, busying his hands by collecting the few stray books he'd left laying around, while internally, he busied himself by trying to explain away the sudden tightness that had appeared in his throat.

"Alright then," the vicomte's voice, strained under its brusque veneer, came from behind him. "It looks like a funeral home in there, but that does seem to be your style, doesn't it? In any case, everything seems adequate and on the up and up, so I suppose it's time for me to take my leave."

Erik placed the stack of books on the side table and gave a single nod of accord. "You can take the boat — I have another. Just leave the lantern by the gate."

A flicker of alarm crossed the vicomte's face, and just as he must have, Erik remembered the boy's last solo encounter with those dark waters. A pleasantly unpleasant tickle of amusement passed through him; he could feel the taunt forming on his lips before his mind even knew what the words would be.

But then the boy was blinking, those clear blue eyes reddened around their rims, and the words evaporated.

He really was just a boy, wasn't he? He was closer to half Erik's age than he'd like to admit, but with far, far less than half of Erik's life experience.

He wanted so badly to curse that foolish boy for the pang of sympathy he felt like a knife twisting in his gut — but he just couldn't. Perhaps he was getting soft.

Or...perhaps there was a kind of peace in feeling sympathy for this man he'd blindly hated.

And while it was likely that they could never truly understand each other, seeing him now, heart-sick and afraid and trying desperately to hide it, willingly giving the woman he loved — loved more than absolutely anything — to another man…. Why, that Erik could understand quite well.

Erik's lips pressed into a humorless — but not unkind — smile.

"You'll be fine, Vicomte," he said evenly. "Just go slowly and mind that third step down to the dock. It tends to be quite slick."

The boy nodded, his eyes downcast, and without another word, he staggered to the door. As he pulled it closed behind him, he paused, locking his eyes onto Erik's from across the room.

His voice was ragged, but firm.

"Take care with her, Erik."

And then the boy turned his face away and jerked the door shut with a bang.

...

Erik eased open the door, and incredibly, neither its quiet creak nor the thunderous thudding of his heart announced his presence.

She stood across the room, her back to him, in front of his mother's old dressing table. Attached to its polished top was his home's only mirror, draped in black satin; he watched as she trailed her fingers over the slick, softly shimmering cloth and sighed.

He hadn't actually said her name out loud since that night, when she'd pressed his ring back into his palm and he curled his fingers around her shaking hand, trying to pour endless love and apology and so much more into just four words — the last words he thought he'd ever speak to her.

Now, with just barely enough air in his lungs, he spoke her name.

"Christine."

After so many years, that name was sweeter on his tongue than he ever could have imagined, and at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to say it a hundred different times in a hundred different ways, sampling the unique flavor of each until he was drunk on it.

But that would have to wait. The conversation at hand, he had a feeling, would be sobering.

At the sound of his voice, she'd turned with a start.

And now, separated by the cold black expanse of the bed, they could only stare at one another, both scarcely breathing.

THE END

Kidding, of course! But it should help put the wait for the next chapter into perspective, no? ;)

Almost 6 years for them, and 14 chapters for us, together again at last! Let's see...Erik's got his emotions totally under control, Raoul's obviously very cool with all this, and Christine is just happy for a nice evening out. Yep, looks like everything should go real smoothly with absolutely no complications or surprises!

Next up - Chapter 15, a chapter with absolutely no complications or surprises!

A few notes:

First off, you guys are the best, you know that, right? I can't get over the thoughtful interpretations and reactions to the last chapter, and I hope I never will. It's a complete joy to know that the story has a life inside heads other than just mine. Talking and thinking about these characters is one of my very favorite things, and it's so cool to see that extended to my own versions. On that note, my ask box is open on Tumblr ( flora-gray), and I LOVE hearing your theories, and promise to only reply to any questions in a spoiler-free manner, either there or in private messages on here, if the mood ever strikes you. :)

Second, the biggest question on the last chapter was WHAT WAS THAT MISSING RULE? Wellllllll...it was only missing because it was a too-sneaky half-joke that I didn't write as clearly as I needed to. Haha...whoops! That last chapter went out un-betaed, so that one's totally on me. I've gone back and rewritten, so it should be clear now.

On that note, I've got a new helper! My dearest N-N is not going to be available for a while, and more eyes are always better, especially when they are as observant and perceptive as Aldebaran's. I'm telling you, I am so very lucky to have her on board, and so are you! She's helped me see what I'm trying to say when I couldn't quite figure it out, and is the evil genius responsible for the chapter ending where it did. AND she has already given you a gift that you haven't known you've received yet: her oneshot, Mercy, which can be found on this site and is inspired by The Better Man, and I'm going to say it, is required reading if you're a fan of this story. It's a beautiful scene that captures the complex relationship between Erik and Nadir. It's what I wished I would have been able to write, were there the space in this story. So please, do yourself a favor and check it out and show her some love.

Lastly, if you need something else to pass the time between updates, I have a quick little oneshot up, She Often Spoke of You, which is either one long joke or a very tragic story, depending on how you want to look at it. It was an idea I had literally 10 years ago, and finally got around to writing out. I hope you enjoy it!

Thanks again, everybody! I love and appreciate you all!