"Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption."
- Paulo Coelho
Christine stepped into the darkness of her flat with numbed relief; the chill of the winter wind had wrapped itself around her slender limbs on her walk home, causing a red flush upon her pale cheeks. She held her hands out into the dark, creating a dizzying and endless search for a nearby candle, hoping that its tiny ember might ignite the all-consuming blackness. Mama Valerius must had gone to bed hours before, having given up on an early evening's return from her ward. Christine finally found success after a few blind steps forward, for her fingers settled upon the dusty gas lamp that sat upon the mantlepiece. She lit it carefully, and the room was illuminated by a hauntingly beautiful glow, the shadow of the flame flickering on the walls all around her. She watched the dancing movements of the shadows, transfixed by the fire that had changed the atmosphere. It calmed her with hypnotic waves that entranced her eyes – at last, something she could fixate upon. To focus on something so mindless was a strange comfort to her; for perhaps if she could follow this flame all night, the whirlwind of choices and decisions that lay before her might simply dissapear into the void of darkness, forever.
Erik…Raoul…Erik…Erik! It was always Erik that haunted her heart and every thought that ran in cycles through her mind. So very unlike the ease and safety of Raoul…Erik was an intoxicating danger whose affection she fought to deny with every inch of her body and spirit…and yet…
She could not stop the visions of him that came unannounced, that prickled themselves inside of her like a thorn, throbbing and rushing and bleeding…
Christine winced, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to hold back the tears that struggled to remain hidden. It was all too much; the return of her Angel, his appearance at the Bal Masque as The Phantom, and lastly…The hideous reality of Raoul prodding and pushing her to take part in his scheme to catch and kill Erik in the performance of his Magnum Opus, Don Juan Triumphant…the thought alone of this trap, this lassoing of the wild animal they named the Phantom sickened her, so much that her stomach roiled at the trepidation of tomorrow…
Tomorrow…tomorrow…
How she despised living in this endless tug-of-war between the two of them, her very ardent and demanding suitors! It was all too clear what each of them wanted from her; both endless devotion and love! In her mind, she could very well imagine a life spent with Raoul, or with her Erik…Either option, although the exact opposite of the other, brought a small and hesitant smile to her face. Christine wiped at the salty mess of tears that now clung to her face, frustrated by the hopelessness of the situation. She then wondered if either of these men had ever asked or cared about what she herself wanted...Did they ever even consider her own desires?
Sighing, she stepped across the threshold to her bedroom, planting the gas lamp on the dresser by the door to her right. The room grew radiant in the pale light as she took in her quaint surroundings, the flame's glow revealing the sparse furniture within her space; a simple and small bed adorned with one of Mama Valerius' quilts, with a night stand to its left, and a burgundy wingback chair that sat beside the balcony. These were her humble lodgings; humble, yet cozy.
She felt safe, here, in this room. And wasn't that what mattered? No uncertainty, no fear, no confronting of treacherous emotions…
As Christine moved further into the chamber, an unfamiliar chill whispered against her skin, a night breeze that twisted around her ankles and rose up around her body.
The balcony...
She shivered violently, her hand coming to her lips to quiet a sharp gasp she could not control – for the doors stood wide open. The frigid wind of the night rustled the pure white curtains that hung angelically from their rod, causing them to move and dance like thick gauzy ribbons. Always cautious, she stepped forward. She was certainly not the type of woman who would leave doors unlocked. Frightened and unsure, but nonetheless drawn by aching curiosity and a desire to lock the doors for her safety, she rushed toward the balcony, colliding in the darkness with a looming figure that blended in with the night, itself.
"Christine…" It was more song than a whisper; the unmistakable mellifluous voice which instantly gave way the identity of her uninvited, but very secretly welcomed guest…
"Erik!" Christine breathed in sharply, flattening her palms upon the rigid strength of his chest, splaying her fingers across the fabric of his black silk waistcoat. He was all long lines and pure power, in the darkness; a foreboding figure that exuded both grace and terrifying command.
Her Dark Angel…
Her blue eyes grew wide as she dared to look upon his face in the dark, the gleam of harsh contrast between his white mask and the void of the balcony snagging her heart in into silence. The sight of his half-covered face left her breathless, whether out of shock or desire, she did not know, anymore.
"Quiet, sweetness, you would not wish to wake your guardian, now would you? A man in your bedroom in the late hours of the evening, how positively scandalous," he crooned, his voice as sensual as the touch of his spindly white fingers that pressed into her cheek. Christine rose up on the balls of her feet, arcing her neck into the cradle of his hand. It was an instinctual reaction to his caress, to his presence…something that she could not resist. No matter his actions, an invisible golden cord bound her to this frightening and charismatic man. Erik, her Maestro, was a man capable of killing without even the faintest hint of remorse, but he was also a man of unfathomable depths unseen. He was a genius who dealt in equal parts tenderness and malice; depending on whatever suited his desires.
"You ask for quiet, Erik, when your all too sudden appearance brings the birth of a storm," Christine countered, not entirely sure how her voice remained so strong. Still, she did not speak above a whisper, as she was shaken by his appearance, and she dared not ruin the moment he had created – a tidal wave crashing upon her angelic white shores…
Erik's other hand danced across her shoulders before increasing their pressure on her flesh. His impossibly long fingers slid down to the small of her back, crushing her small frame into his. "Christine…" he hummed into the shell of her ear, so close that his breath ruffled the curls that dangled at her cheek. Against her better judgement, Christine did not resist his touch and leaned into him, placing her head on his chest.
"So, the Opera Ghost has shown his face once again? Were you not satisfied with the torment you brought me upon our last meeting?" She retorted angrily, pushing against him as she looked up at his face. Even through her anger, she relished the solid masculine feel of him against her body.
"Have you missed your Erik?" His otherworldly voice swam around her, making her whole. And then, she knew she might defy all reason to hear its sound echo beneath her skin, softly and silently luring her into oblivion…
" Erik, you must leave! I need you to go!" Christine whispered urgently, her voice barely even a breath, but her body still answered to his touch. Her fingers curled into the lapels of his suit jacket as she pulled him away from the balcony and into her bedroom.
"You're a tyrant, a liar, an extortionist, and a murderer…and…and yet, I cannot bring myself to turn you away! I will never escape you, and I hate myself for it, you despicable man! You haunt me and you must go now!" Her voice was laced with frustration and hopeless longing, as she clung to him, head bent down into his chest. Christine was afraid her resolve to be strong and unyielding in her angel's presence would falter and die if she looked upon him again. When she did dare to meet his gaze, she met an expression of raw hunger and deep-seated pain on his half-covered face that was illuminated by the gaslight. The look he gave silently begged Christine for her trust…for her soul…
Beseeching her to accept him as a man, as a lover…
"I wish I could hate you!" She would have screamed the putrid words at him, had it not been so very late in the evening; and, in fear of waking others who were oblivious to her ordeal. "You manipulate me to feel for you, to give in to the power of your music…that elusive, otherworldly, perfect music and the passion it brings out of me! You and I both know that I can never resist its lure or be separated from it…and from you! And Erik, all of the sordid feelings you evoke in me - every time I am in your presence, cause me to think and yearn for things I don't even wish to speak of! Dark, sinful thoughts! It's all so wrong, these ways you turn my mind and twist the depths of my soul!"
Christine was consumed by a fire that enveloped her body in ferocious flames of anger, regret, and an inescapable longing that she could not control. She reveled in it, because the strength of her emotions gave her a power she had never before possessed. It was the freedom to speak her own mind in the presence of this man, this Angel, this phantom that haunted her every waking breath…
She would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that his opinion of her mattered most, for that would be her admittance of defeat. She could never let him know that she existed only within his eyes and in the judgment of his self-created universe.
"I should hate you," she spat again, her whisper growing weary with emotional exhaustion that seemed to pull her body down to the floor, down into shambles that she had taken so long to build up…and he had destroyed it, he had maimed her, bruised her…
He had forever changed her.
"And you have every reason to love me, Christine, every reason." Erik's tone was haunting and mournful, the last few words dying in quiet desperation within the air between them. He caught her wrists in his hands and brought them up to his face, staring at her pallid fingers before bringing them to his lips. She did not protest or pull her hands away in revulsion, yet Erik slowly let her go, delicately releasing her wrists one long finger at a time, as if he savored every bit of contact, prolonging the separation of the skin. When he had fully released her, they stood quietly, a mere foot apart, two would-be lovers uncertain of how to proceed, the heaviness of their world hanging between them.
"Did I not craft your voice to sing with the angels, pulling you out of the mediocrity of chorus and into the glory you rightfully deserved? Was I not your only confidante when you came to the opera as a shivering, penniless orphan, mourning the loss of your father?" Erik snarled and pivoted around to close the balcony doors before facing her again.
"And when you learned I was but a man, a disfigured one at that, you did not hesitate to shun me and make me a monster. Just in time for the Vicomte to return to your life, an opportunistic milksop of a dandy all too happy to swoop in and claim the new jewel of the Opera! Where was that sniveling boy when your father passed, Christine?"
"Do not speak ill of him! He is a better man than you. He does not have habits of lying, of extortion, of murder…why must you insult the Vicomte?" Christine's eyes flared with rage, her defenses rising up like a tidal wave through the tight coil that had become her heart, drowning it. She could not allow herself to give in to him. She would not.
"Why, Christine? Have you forgotten his delightful and quite poorly formed plan to have me killed, tomorrow evening? To use you, his blushing bride to be, as a piece of bait for a deformed killer, believing that your very life could be in danger due to his little scheme? The better man, indeed!" Erik grimaced, and she could see the hard line of his jaw set in fury, his visible eyebrow arching upwards, with eyes that burned into her very soul.
"Yes, why, Christine? Because you know deep in your soul that you would not matter a trifle to the Vicomte, if not for your triumph on the stage. To him, you are a pretty bauble of his hollow adoration. But, to me…" His words died off, for he could not seem to express the words that would make him utterly vulnerable.
Christine pressed forward, hesitantly setting her palm on his shoulder, "What, Erik? What am I to you that you would risk coming here, tonight?"
Erik shifted on his heels, and with a sharp intake of breath he collected himself, once more becoming the familiar impressive shadow. His graceful hands removed his hat and great black beaded cloak, both of which he tossed aimlessly on her bed. Christine looked bewildered, aghast at the audacity and arrogance of his motions. He was presently claiming her and her bedroom as his, and the nonchalance of his possession of her body and room was unsettling. Still, she allowed a deliciously dark and sensuous part of her soul to delight in his perceived ownership of her. She would not think about it, for to think of it produced revelations she did not yet wish to acknowledge.
Although, this time she was determined not to be won over by him, so she pushed her chin high with a glare, shoving him away from her. "You come to me without explanation, so certain of your hold over me, but unwilling to let me speak my own mind. So ready to place me back in your façade of a cage!" Christine threw her hands in the air, attempting to release some of the pent-up anger she had been repressing for months.
"Come and sit by your Erik, my dove." His calm tone negated her irritation as he glided over to the edge of her bed, smoothing the spot beside him in the hope that she might join him. He had not even flinched when she had pushed away from him, and the lack of distress in his eyes unnerved her with its thick composure.
Christine hesitantly sat down next to him, their thighs almost touching, yet she still was unable to meet his gaze. She concentrated on his long, powerful fingers instead. God help her and forgive her for wanting him so close, for wondering - no, imagining what those gorgeous hands might feel like on her skin! For he was her menace, her fear, her very soul and desire…lest she should be damned by turning a fiend into a man!
Erik washer music. He washer home.
But she would deny it all for the promise of peace, the absence of blood and destruction, and the knowledge she held of his past. For what could come of this? What future could she make with a man wanted for endless crimes of passion? She'd known him for so very long, yet had barely scratched the murky surface of his history. And from what little he'd revealed to her, she was certain it was laced with violence, pain, and unspeakable horrors. Her heart thrummed viciously with an overwhelming compassion for him, simply at the mere thought of what he must have faced before the merciless hands of others; the hands of those that could never look past a face.
And that was all it was, simply, a face. Once, she had shunned his love for her because of it. Christine barely recognized that dim, shallow girl now…
Erik thought his disfigurement to be the deterrent of her love for him, that which stopped her from taking him into her heart. A man so long denied a single touch from his own mother; a man starved of basic human affection, left empty from a vengeful society. He would surely blame all rejections in this life upon his face. For Christine, it was merely the unrepentant violence and bloodlust that repelled her from taking him in her arms, from trusting him as a man…
But, there was a sense of stability she longed for in the most sensible pieces of her heart, for stability and certainty had never been parts of her life. Raoul offered that security, though he would never infiltrate her soul in the intoxicating manner Erik always had. Within a marriage to Raoul, she would never have to involve herself with the unexpected. It would be a privileged existence, with the simplicity of a comfortable life and an agonizing silence of passion. Could she make herself want less from life, from her career…in the name of security? The need for comfort pulled her from a life which she wished to embrace with reckless longing.
Christine was suddenly aware of the close proximity in which they sat upon her modest bed. Erik's very real and physical presence next to her jostled and unbalanced the normalcy of her world in ways she found both enchanting and startling. He had still not answered her question, and his pale fingers reached across the quilt for her trembling hands. As Christine tangled her own hand in his, she reposed her question, her eyes finally meeting his; her bravery growing by the second, ignited by the sensation of his skin pressed upon hers.
"I shall ask again; why have you come here tonight, Erik?" Christine squeezed his fingers with a firm tenderness, as if insisting on a response that might satisfy her heart.
A deep silence lived between them in that moment. Erik caressed the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb in never- ending circles, swirling upon her skin in a hypnotic rhythm. He looked down at their entwined fingers, wonder playing across his face in a sharp and rare allowance of emotion, as if he could hardly believe this moment of intimacy. Erik swallowed before he answered her, trying to form words that were impossible.
"Christine, I will not release you. My heart…I, I…cannot. I do not possess the strength to do so. Forgive me! Even knowing the trap that is laid for me tomorrow night, I would still give everything to hear your voice sing my opera. I am here, my dove, because you have undone me to my very core; the wicked and dark place that it is. I see no way to recover from this condition, unless you sing for me…Be with me!"
It was not a request, but a demand. A demand met with an overwhelming and painful silence that hung over them like a sinister black cloud that warned of a violent storm.
And suddenly, he was stripped of his commanding presence, collapsing onto the bed and disentangling his fingers from her own, only so that he could turn and cover his tears from her eyes, shoving his thin and impossibly tall frame deep into the mattress.
Christine felt her heart cease its pulse, unsure of how to comfort or reassure him; afraid to calm him with the loving touch of her hands.
"Erik…Your love would take everything I am and consume me! It is too much. I…I lack the strength to love you in the way you desire." She whispered, leaning into his figure that was curled up like a frightened child.
"Don't," he choked, his voice muffled into the pillow that he had buried his face in, concealing the tears he did not wish for her to see. "Don't, Christine! There is absolutely nothing you can say to me that will help…You and I both know that! Tomorrow evening, you shall betray me for your boy. You will do as he has asked! You have never made your own choices! So, do not give me your excuses. I am weary of them."
"How can I make my own choices when the two of you manipulate me to your own wishes at every turn?" She snapped, turning to look at him; him who lay desperate and seemingly broken. The very image of him so vulnerable and humane broke the taut cord of anger that had held her heart in a vice-like lasso of pain.
Oh, how she cared for him! The intensity of tenderness she felt for her Maestro, her Erik, held gilded chains of emotion that she might never comprehend.
Christine extended her hand to rub his back in some gesture of comfort, but Erik rose from the bed at that moment, gently batting her fingers away as he came to stand at his full and imposing height. Erik would not allow for more than a few moments of weakness. He straightened his cravat and looked away from her shaking form, composing himself in the blink of an eye.
"I should ask you to leave, but I cannot find it within myself to do so," Christine murmured, her voice soft and hesitant, tears streaking her cheeks in hot red lines. She did not care to wipe them away. "I need you more than I wish to admit...But…but you must atone for your crimes, Erik. I cannot allow the blood on your hands to taint me as well."
Erik grasped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look up at him from her seat upon the bed, his thumb tracing the sweet line of her bottom lip as he spoke. "You will never let me go, my nightingale. You will betray me. You will shame me, but…You shall never let me go." The truth of his words shook in his throat as he spoke them, binding the words within her mind.
"Why, Christine? Why can't you simply allow yourself to feel? Why hold us both in this prison of your heart? If you could tell me that you hate me, that you have no wish for me to be a part of your life…" His broad shoulders drooped with the agony of his confession. Erik stood before her, a defeated man. She watched him in numb silence as he reached for her cheek once more.
She had no desire to part ways.
She did not want to forget him, ever.
"You ask for the impossible from me. To denounce my fiance', to commit myself to an uncertain life with you! Never to have a home, but an existence spent in shadows. To give up everything for you and your music! I have barely lived outside the shelter of my father's arms and the sound of your voice! I know not what lies in this world you have built for me for so many years! You would have me forsake a certain future in order to possess me. And I would almost give myself to you, everything you are asking…Erik, you ask too much!"
She quickly turned her face so that her lips pressed a soft caress to his fingertips, but then abruptly shifted away from him, unsure of what else should be said. Erik's words had been glaringly true. Christine closed her eyes for a moment, ducking her head in resignation, afraid to shatter the silence that grew before them like glass; a perfect lake with a surface untouched, undisturbed…
"You cannot even admit it to yourself, can you, Christine?" His words were edged with a sensual clarity, but he did not look at her. His eyes focused on the balcony, drifting to and fro, in and out of a world where he might never truly belong…
All of this was useless.
"Admit what?" Christine spoke as she rose from the bed, moving to stand nearer to him, the answer to her own question pulsing within her veins. She dared not give him a true response.
She was afraid of the truth that lay budding inside of her.
Erik turned to her, no longer focused on the world outside. Christine was his only concern, and his body sought her out, fingers greedily clasping her slim waist and pulling her flesh against his. The touch and intimacy of his hold caused her head to swim.
"Tell me you don't love me, nightingale," he whispered urgently. "If you can give me that truth, I shall let you go. I will leave you forever. I will accept your flimsy engagement to that stupid boy. Tell me you do not love me!"
She had no words for him. She was as soundless as a china doll, perfectly imperfect, standing before an elegant shadow that reached out to taste her desires…to know every whim, to touch every part of her soul and spirit…
What could she possibly tell him…The truth of it? Her deepest fear that was hidden in the darkest parts of her mind; her overwhelming and ardent love for him? A love so strong that it coursed through her blood and bones, so powerful that she had to bite her tongue to keep those thoughts locked away. For to speak of its existence made it nothing more than a bird without wings, a creature that was simply undeserving of him. Still, Christine wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling her face into the creased lines of his dress shirt. He smelled of sandalwood and rosewater; an aroma that she begged to linger in long after he was gone.
"I cannot give you the answer you seek, Erik," she replied gently, struggling to breathe. The sadness that began to creep into her heart was achingly unbearable, and her voice wavered in the faintest whisper. "I cannot tie myself to you. Not with all the blood on your hands. I will not tell you the words you so desire to hear from my lips."
Erik's arms tightened about her, and he rested his chin against the intoxicating silk of her warm brown curls. Christine allowed him this closeness, savoring it, for this might be the last night she would ever hold him.
"Would you hold back such words of endearment from your Vicomte, Christine?" There was a slight snarl within his tone, and a grimace that grew fiery upon the unmasked side of his face.
Christine withdrew from him slowly, though still close to his chest, unable to leave the sensation of his touch. She stared into his watering eyes, two mismatched jewels glistening furiously in the pale lamplight. His gaze could crumble her resolve if she were to stare long enough."Erik, that's not fair. It is not the same," she stammered, averting her eyes from his.
Erik reeled from her then, violently wrenching away his hands that had clutched so tightly around her waist; as if suddenly she were a sodden rag clinging to him – a piece of waste that he wished to rid himself of.
"Fair; not the same?" he spat out, clenching his fists in an uncontrollable rage. "How can you speak of fair with me?! Not the same?! I dare say your Vicomte and I are certainly not the same!" Erik stepped toward the balcony doors, his fingers tangling themselves aimlessly in the ribbons of drapery in a twisted desperation. Christine feared he might tear them down, such was the visible anguish pulsating angrily throughout his body.
"You don't think this is fair, Christine?!" He whirled around to face her once more, his arms reaching out in the dark space, unsure of what to seek or hold to steady himself. He pinched the fingers of his right hand together with measured purpose, as if he were clenching a revelation in mid-air. "You never listen to the little sounds, Christine! You never hear anything!" His vibrant eyes shot out into the pitch blackness of the night. "You don't…you…you cannot possibly understand…"
The bare desperation in his voice was disarming, yet beautiful in its vulnerability. "Christine…"
She shivered then with a cold that could not be quenched by physical warmth, and attempted to slow the steady cannonade of her heartbeat. Christine was afraid that he, her Erik, would feel every pulse of it; that he might sense and inhale every thought and machination of her heart. She feared he would know how deeply she felt for him. It was all too vulnerable, as if she were naked before him, his glorious mismatched eyes taking her in…all of her. Was that not what she sought – was that not what she yearned for?
"The little sounds, Erik?" She pressed him onwards, coming to stand beside him once more. "What do I not hear?" Christine reached for him blindly, her hands trembling as she scraped at the ebony lapels of his coat.
"Oh, my innocent, little dove, you've never heard the sounds of true suffering, of utter and miserable loneliness; the choking sense of isolation that one can only recognize unless one has been completely alone." He covered her fingers with his hand, cherishing the delicate and sweet feeling of her skin against his palm. "My love…you are far too beautiful to ever fear knowing such misery. You will never hear those sounds. One as precious as yourself will…will never be alone." At that, Erik brought his other hand up to her face, the backs of his knuckles leaving a cold caress against her cheek. Christine came alive at his touch, helpless to deny the desire he brought forth within her.
"You must go, Erik," she repeated half-heartedly, yet the last thing she wanted was for him to leave her side. "If someone…were to find you here…"
"Such sweet concern for my well-being, Christine! I'm touched! If only that concern would carry on through tomorrow night's performance! Tell me, Christine, will you deliver your Angel and his hideous face to your boy and the gendarmes as the curtain falls, while the last strains of my opera fall into silence? Will you betray me as you take your curtsy as the audience rises at your triumph; their applause thundering through your ears?"
Christine could only shake her head dumbly at his words, unable to answer him, for she still did not know what she might do. There were only so many hours before the choice must be made, and she knew the gravity of her decision would irrevocably change the course of their lives. Her stomach lurched at the thought of it; how could she even contemplate betraying the man that stood before her when there was so much love that shone in his amber eyes?
"What stands between us - what keeps us apart has very little to do with your face, Angel." She gazed up at him, with melancholy riddled deep in the blue of her eyes. "Your past actions have left me with no other choice than to deny you. You must know this." Christine moved to place her hand on his bare cheek, gently prodding him to seek truth within her face.
Erik covered the palm she held to his unmarred cheek with his hand, holding it to his flesh, savoring what might be the last tender caress shared between them. A deep sigh escaped from him as he bent his head down to inhale the scent of her hair, memorizing it within his mind, so that he might recall it in the darkest nights of his final days. For certainly, those days were approaching quite fast. He could not run forever, and now that his opera was complete, he found himself weary of a life overflowing with pain and rejection.
"Christine," he murmured, taking her hand and bringing it to the fastenings of the white porcelain mask. "I will leave you for tonight."
Erik led her fingers to the knots that secured the covering, silently begging her to unmask him. She followed his guidance with great hesitation, her whole body shaking as the memory of his first unmasking flashed into her mind. Still, she did not stop until she had shakily lifted the covering from his face. Christine's vision shot to the mask in her hands, for she could not bear to meet his gaze. She needed a moment to breathe, to compose herself before she was stricken with the honesty and pain of his distorted features. The mangled red ridges of his cheek, the hollowness of his right nostril, the sunken eye socket, and the bloated upper lip that perched upon sallow skin…she took in all of its entirety. It did not disturb her, not this time. For the vulnerability and ugliness he offered her in that moment only endeared him to her with a profound love, and a protectiveness for him she would never be able to conquer.
The strength and enormity of her love for him sucked all the air from her lungs in that very moment, making her dizzy as she felt the infinite power of it pulling her into the abyss of his eyes.
He did not allow her a moment of repose, as one curled finger lifted her chin so that she could meet his ravaged face and all of its flaws. When she brought her eyes to meet his, he continued, his thumb tracing her jawline. "Know this, Christine Daae, my little nightingale. You will never be free of me. Wherever you go, whatever happens tomorrow night; my face, this horrid visage will always haunt you and call out to you. This face will always love you…and only you."
His thumb brushed over her lips as his words cradled her, and she leaned into his touch, just as transfixed as she had been when his voice had first called to her many years ago. She had been kneeling in the chapel, an orphaned child in need of a compass, an angel to watch over her.
And then, there was his voice. His spell. How could she have ever denied him?
Erik broke their contact abruptly, snatching his mask and returning it back to his face. He hurriedly grabbed his hat and cloak from her bed, donning them with sharpened elegance, his back now turned against her. With one last look over his shoulder, he allowed his gaze to settle upon her as if to commit her delicate image to his memory. There was a silence that stretched out between them as he studied her, a moment laden with unspoken and violent emotions that words could never reach or describe.
"Erik, I …" Christine whispered, looking upon him with the agony of her hidden longing.
With a majestic flourish, he threw open the balcony doors, and the winter wind once again rustled the curtains along with his great black cloak. "Until tomorrow night, Mademoiselle. I look forward to your performance."
Christine watched wordlessly as Erik flew into the darkness. She scurried to the edge of the balcony, trying to find his figure escaping into the quiet streets below. But he was gone, not even a shadow remained. No ebony shape revealed itself to her as she clutched her arms to her chest. Defeated, she softly shut the balcony doors.
She changed into her nightclothes and pulled back the sheets of her bed; a bed that he had shared with her in an elusive and intimate way; a simple holding of hands. Christine would not sleep tonight. The decisions of the following day were too great for her to bear. As she turned off the gas lamp and crawled into bed, she was only certain of one thing;
His opera was simply the blackened clouds that gathered before a wild and unearthly storm; and he, the man with the half shattered face…the man in which she had already given herself to, deep down in the pits of her heart…
He, her Erik, was the rain.