"Sometimes healing looks like falling apart.
Sometimes falling apart is the path to what can be built.
Sometimes, we go through the darkest nights, and there is nobody
but the man in the moon to hear.
He always listens.
Now you listen.
There is not enough air in the room, but you are breathing.
There is nobody here, but you are held. You have broken, and the world is breaking, and we will always rebuild.
Do you hear me, love?
We will always rebuild."
― Jeanette LeBlanc
Christine's sweet voice rang in his head, a bright tinkling chime to remind him of his purpose, of the fact that he, still, claimed mortality, humbled by the beauty of her voice and innocent compassion. Erik made his journey to the stage, a black and soundless specter following her faint melody, weaving through hidden corners to conceal his presence. He breathed heavily in both exhilaration and dread for what was to come, feeling the mask pulling tightly against his malformed upper lip. He was the shade that toyed with the wirey catgut lasso; he wound it back around the knuckle of his right hand, his tendons aflame with adrenaline and a tiny whisper of fear.
The malice within his mind had been restless and uncertain, and part of him had not even realized the gravity of the crimes he had committed…That was, until the moment he had decided to make a confession to his angel. He now realized in that sacred time of precious vulnerability spent with her, that he deeply regretted his sins, especially the trauma his actions had inflicted upon Christine.
And yet, one more act of violence was necessary, Erik argued with himself. The man had been in his way, and it had been pure simplicity to land the noose upon the tenor's neck. So natural, as if he'd done it a hundred times…because indeed, he had. He took one more glance at the bloated body of the unconscious Piangi, removing the lasso from the man's engorged stump of a neck. He pulled up the cowl of the black cloak he had stolen from his victim, shrouding his masked face in darkness. The Italian would recover, for Erik could not kill him, not after his confessions to Christine. His expertise with the Punjab lasso allowed him the knowledge of just how far to pull the catgut to render the victim unconscious, rather than bring about the estranged angel of death.
The incapacitated Piangi lay before him, motionless all for the rise and fall of his bulbous stomach, laborious with every breath he dare take. Erik's jealousy allowed him to disregard the stark image; to step over it as if it were a mere obstacle to overcome. But, it was not simply a hurdle, for Piangi would wake after the opera. He would share his tale of the Opera Ghost with every ear that bent forth, commanded by the chatter of insignificant gossip…
No…Erik could not think of it now. It was time to move forward. Anything he'd ever cared about or dreamt of had fallen like glass shards around his heels. There was nothing he was allowed to hold or cherish after Christine's betrayal with that insufferable boy…and even consequences had ceased to matter. He could only think of her, and the music they created together. Everyone but her had become an adversary; even time, for every moment apart from her was another minute wasted, another minute disappearing like sand through his hands.
Time, how he abhorred its unstoppable nature.
This torturous, slow passage of the clock forced Erik to recall enormously painful memories; memories which he had never shared with another. These images ultimately added up to one great and terrible scar - the start of a life without unconditional love…
A father's large hand taking his own, a kind whisper of encouragement after a private piano practice, a smile on the carriage ride home. All of it had made him bend against the will of the world, for his father looked upon him as if he not only belonged, but was loved despite his disfigurement…
The memories were faint, but they stayed with him, even still. Time had prickled and blurred their shapes, but he could still recall the feeling of overwhelming emotion, this untouchable treasure that was his father's kind face.
But the past was a closed book, an entity completely out of his grasp, now. His mind could not bridge the chasm between disgust - this memory - all the way up to the cursed present…and the future, what of it? If she would not be a part of it, if he could not love her for the rest of his days, then the blackened unknown of the future did not hold any fear - only the familiar isolation that created a hole within his heart.
For love was but a dream, not meant to grow meekly from the cracks in his pallid skin.
Yet as of lately, he had dared himself to hold that dream, for his heart was a stubborn muscle, a self-destructive mechanism. It did not listen to reason, but instead followed its own disastrous trajectory, plummeting its way along a treacherous, gilded path. It thundered with its own volition without his consent; a steady rhythm fighting against his nature, searching for a place where his heart could be free.
It adamantly refused to give up, even when it seemed as though he'd lost everything - her. But instead, it pulsed onward.
Struggling.
Damaged.
Needing to be free…
And it was all for her. She had given him back his humanity…
This, and so much more.
Erik slowly turned the onyx ring on his finger, eyeing it as if it might disappear, thinking back to the blurred image of his father. The dark stone glimmered in the candlelight, and he recalled the golden tone of his father's eyes - a gift his father had given him, perhaps…for it was those same eyes that stared back at him through his shattered mirror.
As he toyed with the silver band, he experienced a profound realization that made his heart skip several beats; that he might offer Christine this very ring tonight. It was one of the only items that had ever held any value for him…for it was a memory.
A reminder that love could still exist within the blood of his soul.
Would he do this, now? Would he dare to entertain the notion that she held love for him in some elusive manner; did her heart save a place for him, a place where he could lie down and rest, a place where he close his weary eyes?
Or had he ruined his chances with his selfish actions, with each and every murder that pushed her away - that frightened her, that made her recoil from his arduous, gentle touch…?
What would his father have thought of his behavior, all of his rash decisions, his violence?
But no, no no…Erik shook his head. This man had claimed to love him, yet left him, a skinny little boy standing alone at the train station. He had stood with nothing left, that day…nothing but the screaming of the train whistle, and the onyx ring cupped in the palms of his hands.
No. He could not think of it. Not now; not tonight...
Erik's stomach curdled with sudden self-loathing, and he tasted the rise of bile in the back of his throat, his mind skimming through the loose leaf plan he had created for tonight.
He had plotted the course and he must see it through, fool-hardly and love-stricken as it was. Pathetic.
Dangerous.
Immovable.
What could he possibly do with this insurmountable reserve of love he held for Christine? Where did it belong? How could he release it out into the world, when he had been shunned and abused and tortured? He was never allowed to release the beauty that lived inside of him - that was, up until a few hours ago. She had sat patiently, listening to him speak…and she had been cold to him, but her bitterness had seemingly melted away. Had she forgiven him, now? Was that why his heart would not stop yearning or hoping that she might fall senselessly into his arms?
Erik turned the ring over in his palm once again, his large, pale hands trembling as he did so. What would it feel like to remove this ring from his finger and bestow it upon her? To present himself to her as a potential husband; a man made of scars and bravery?
How had his father proposed to his mother? Was it in a similar manner in which he thought to propose to his Christine? As a man, simply a man, in front of everyone that might judge him; those of the world that had always isolated him, those that still wished to see him die? It was dramatic, even operatic to think of. Yet even still, his heart would not listen to talk of reason, self-preservation, or survival; it simply felt…
He was momentarily frozen, pinching the ring within two long fingers. He could feel, now, deeper than he ever had before…and it had nothing to do with possessing her, or keeping her in a golden cage like a silver canary…no. He wanted her flawless within her own freedom.
Yet she still existed as an unattainable dream. And Erik would do anything to grasp her hand, to feel his ring slide onto her finger. Tonight, he would ask if she would commit herself to him in this life, to exist at his side in their own version of eternity. In his mind, he imagined them walking, arm in arm on a sunlit day in the Bois; the budding flowers of early Spring drifting with sweet fragrance across their faces. His face would be comfortably half-covered, and hers bare; fair and shimmering with the beauty of a new hope. A new life.
A feather of a dream.
But this question that bound his soul, this aching would put an end to all of his madness.
His life had always been a great and echoing cacophony of despair, especially in the throngs of tonight, for there existed only two possible endings...
He would die and vanish from her life forever…Or, she would accept him for the extraordinarily damaged and estranged man that he was. His hands were covered in a legion of blood, but, as filthy as they were, they longed to capture the soft satin of her skin, the pull of her heart.
Tonight would determine if she truly was forever out of his grasp, or if she would become the partner of his soul until the end of his days. He still held onto the thin possibility that she might accept him, that she might offer him her love. That fragment of hope propelled him forward. It made him reckless, this love for her…
It might even ruin him.
Erik paused and studied the stark image of his fine, freshly-shined ebony boot crossing onto the stage. He was taking the first step to Christine now, facing possible death at the hands of the Gendarmes and those of that insufferable, insignificant Vicomte. Erik moved forward, his graceful feet soundless in the darkness. He relished within the sonorous tones of his beloved's instrument, longing to join her, to dive deep into their shared heaven of music. But just as he was about to step onto the stage boards, he paused, glancing again at the mirror placed secretly in the wings. The black-clad specter studied his cowled form, his face hidden by both mask and shadow…
No, that simply wouldn't do.
He had revealed his past and his soul to Christine, and therefore to hide in another man's costume would be to wear the guise of a coward. Erik had promised to come to her as a man, not a ghost or phantom, not even as an angel. A very intelligent, powerful, and talented man, and only as this entity could he ask for her hand. He cared quite little that she had accepted another's proposal in a bout of fear, searching for the familiar amongst the dangerous: the deep chasm of the unknown. Such a pity that she had agreed to that foolish boy's offer, but he would rectify the circumstances and kneel for her. Still, he could not do so unless he presented himself to her in his true form, no matter how terribly frightening it was.
She would want the truth of him.
With deft and graceful fingers that shook slightly, Erik lifted the cowl from his body, dropping the voluminous black fabric to the floor. He watched it fall into a large ebony pile, transfixed by what this choice meant for him and for Christine. No disguises, just a damaged man with a disfigured face seeking the love of his muse. One more look in the mirror had him straightening the mask, the wig, his waistcoat. It was time.
Erik, the Angel of Music, began to sing, and his voice was a magnificent prayer to her, an adulation, both glorious and humble. A plea for her love, and a question of her acceptance.
Oh, Christine.
Christine's eyes widened at the sound of that voice, its singular perfection carrying her and every audience member in its intoxicating thrall. Erik's physicality may have left him bereft of beauty, but his voice was an unrivaled instrument. She would always know its majesty, she would always follow the splendor of it without question. Her breath froze in her chest as she looked upon his half-masked face that came towards her, revealing himself to all. She savored the movements of his distorted lips as he sang to her, the bold and graceful lines he created as he moved. He was majestic, a God of the Underworld come to seek his earthly bride. And she knew, as he approached her on the stage, that she could no longer fight the pull inside of her.
Christine glided to meet him in the middle of the stage, oblivious to all that existed outside of this moment that they wound together; two dexterous hands that intertwined rhythmically, unblemished and whole. Her desire for Erik, her once elusive Maestro, heightened inside of her as he stood before her, and the sumptuous erotic tones of his music urged her forward to join him. She ached for him, needing to feel his hands craft another kind of melody across her body. The touches she once feared had now become a sensual passion, a pain in the midst of her stomach that was delicious within its darkened tastes.
The soul is a desperate thing.
Christine could feel her spirit pulsating between each note; the music he had written out of rage and love. The melody she now sang grew caustic with lust that she could no longer deny, for it was an echo of the voices that melded her mind and heart into one.
She moved to sit on the bench, center stage, the faux feast laid out before them. She offered herself to Erik, her body quivering like a willow in the sun, a wanton eagerness for his touch. He moved to sit behind her, his legs imprisoning her own, his breath hot and exquisite as it whispered against her neck. With each sublime note, she could feel the gentle scrape of the mask's cheek against her skin.
When their flesh finally met, Christine had an intense feeling of finally, yes finally coming home. The palms of his spidery fingers clenched her own, and she arched her back to lean into his lithe form. She wished to pull the mask from his face, to see him in all his towering, unique glory. For she found him strangely beautiful, a sensual beast that she wished to conquer with her love. For the enormity of this truth crashed upon her, a tidal wave descending and scattering the sands to the ends of the earth.
She loved him.
Christine Daae, a grown woman now, loved this damaged man madly, deeply, and insufferably. And there was nothing for it but to share her truth, to sing his music.
Yes, this was dangerous, startling, but not unwanted. Her heart was a gathering storm as she sang words to him of seduction, her voice weaving through his ears as his fingers grazed the neckline of her gown, deftly ghosting the tips of her breasts.
She was beginning to become undone in his hands.
The final tone of her phrase rang out, a haunting and resounding crescendo of honesty, a song of primal wanting. She would be his. She would accept him for the man that he was. Christine gripped his long, pale fingers and dragged them over the bodice of her dress, needing to feel his bare flesh run along her own. His voice resonated throughout the theater, the voice of a God, intense in its power and haunting fragility, a voice that could bring a man to his knees - to finally believe there was indeed a God. Erik's voice had molded the audience of unworthy penitents, making them screech and beg for more. But Christine understood that he was singing to her, and only her…as if whispering these intimate words in the delicate shell of her ear.
She knew within that moment she could no longer deny that she was his, that she could not marry Raoul - regardless of his plummet into cold sea spray for a crimson scarf - lost unto the wind.
Lost to the intoxication of their duet, their voices joined in a glorious union, neither Christine nor Erik considered the whispers of the crowd or the scrambling movements of Raoul and the gendarmes…such was the spell they had placed upon one another. Her hands sought his shoulders, and then his half-masked face, searching for a repentance in the touch of his flesh. For maybe, in his touch, she would find her truth. The songbird awakened, or perhaps was reborn? For her voice could not exist without him, nor could her soul.
The song ended, the perfection of their duet leaving an overwhelming silence from the awestruck crowd. And suddenly, it was simply Erik and Christine gazing at one another on the stage. She reached to place her hand upon his unmasked cheek, but he stopped her before she could lay her fingers upon his face. Instead, he gently guided her hand to her side, his eyes beseeching her to wait; the little sounds of breath matching between them - an irreversible, unspoken kiss of their two atmospheres becoming one…
Christine thought for a moment of the engagement ring Raoul had gifted her. Erik had ripped it from her neck in a jealous fit of anger the night of the Bal Masque…it had once hung on a chain about her throat; hidden, no pride attached to its presence. A secret she had not wished to share, not with Erik, and not with anyone else. Had she thought of its glittering, gaudy absence before now, as Erik caressed her shoulders, his tantalizing touch igniting every nerve ending in her body?
Erik suddenly pushed away from her, the feeling of his fingertips coming off of her flesh featherlight and uncertain. In the echoing silence of the theater, Erik lifted his once graceful, now quivering fingers to his face and very slowly removed his mask, unfastening the ties in one deft, practiced motion. His mismatched eyes searched her own, an impossible plea written within his gaze. With bravado and innocent vulnerability, Erik grasped Christine's hand in his own, placing the white porcelain mask into her palm. The room fell silent and the world seemed to stop, save for a wave of stifled gasps from the audience. But they lasted a mere moment, for none could utter another sound, so transfixed were they by the scene playing out before them.
Christine gripped the ivory mask in her fingers, unable to process the profoundness of this act; of the humility and courage that Erik now offered to her. She dared not turn to the audience, nor would she look down at the haunted object her Maestro had handed her. Her eyes, instead, locked onto his newly revealed tortured features. The sight of him bare to the world, the otherworldly nature of his appearance brought a pang of love so sudden and deep within her being that she felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs in an instant. In this one monumental gesture, Erik had surrendered himself to her, and revealed his truth to all those that sat in the rows and boxes of the Populaire.
Erik had lain himself out, a lamb to the slaughter, at the mercy of the crowds, for her. The truth of his choice was not lost to her, and her heart slammed to the bottom of her being with the enormity of his gesture.
"I promised you no more lies," he stuttered in a beautiful whisper, breath catching in his throat at each word. "I promised to come to you as a man, Christine, however broken I may be. This is the man that stands before you." He ran a hand over the side of his face as if to display the perceived horror of it. But she saw none of that. She only saw the magnificent, damaged genius who loved her, a man who stood before her at a risk of great peril.
For now, the gendarmes and the Vicomte held no doubt as to the identity of the tall, black-clad figure on the stage. He had given himself over to their derision and violence. For, if she did not accept him, he would rather cease to live freely and allow his own murder to take place.
If she so much as rebuked him, he would open his arms in full display to offer the insipid Vicomte and his men a better chance at a fatal shot. For there was no quality of life, no reason to continue this farce of an existence, without her. And perhaps, the spilling of his blood would finally cleanse his innumerable sins. It would be the most honorable way for him to leave this earthly realm. Erik's focus never shifted from her face as she gazed up at him with love and true understanding.
He chose then to accept whatever fate, whatever choice his little songbird made, for it would all end in some manner tonight. Mad with love, he was resigned to his pre-written destiny.
As Christine studied his ravaged features and the impossible yearning in his eyes, she realized that he, her Erik, had become her Kintsugi, a terribly broken and abandoned thing, shards of an exquisite soul that knew no path to unite into something complete. But Christine would meld the pieces of him together once more, and make him whole with the golden threads of her voice, her arms reaching out to him with an endless flow of love. Without tearing her gaze from his, and feeling the smooth wood beneath her fingers, she gingerly placed the mask on the table behind her, as if to discard the last barrier that lay between them. Christine allowed her hands to slowly rise to his face, not yet touching his cheeks; one twisted and malformed, the other handsome and masculinely sharp. Her touch lay in the air between them, in silent anticipation for his consent, for him to let down one last barrier and be hers.
Erik had failed to anticipate her receptiveness, her reactions. He'd believed that she would recoil from his offering, but still, Christine stood strong and unwavering. Expectant. Could it be possible that she yearned for his touch, that she accepted him for the miserable excuse of a man that he believed himself to be?
Did she actually want him? He'd never known what it felt like to be wanted, to be desired. Yes, he'd been sought out for his many gifts: as a child's corpse singing in a freak show, as a master architect requested by the elite of European nations, and as a skilled assassin rivaled by no other. Yes, he had been wanted, but never truly for himself, only in ways at which he could be useful to others, those beings that held little regard as to whether he lived or died.
But this lovely young woman before him, crafted of warm sunlight, more of an angel than he had ever been…did she desire him, just as he desired her?
Erik had been so lost within his mind's consideration of such an unattainable fantasy, that he had failed to realize Christine now stood so close to him that the lace of her bodice swept across his waistcoat. She tilted her head upwards to meet his eyes, and ever so softly, and with a tender movement, cupped his face in her hands and pulled him down to her, a silken palm to each of his cheeks.
"Erik," she breathed against his neck, her tone far too low and intimate for the ears of all those that watched them, mouths agape, in the magnificent theater.
"Erik, oh, my brilliant, tortured angel. You are mine." Her fingers mapped the valleys of his damaged cheek as she sighed his name; a benediction. A quiet moan rumbled throughout his tightly-wound, wiry body as she touched him…as if feeling him for the first time.
Before Erik could register her succulent words, Christine had risen up on her toes and crushed her mouth to his with a violent desperation. Her lips plundered his, and inwardly he shattered, unable to breathe or accept what must surely be a dream born of madness.
But no, she was real, for he could not deny the hungry call of her arms as she wove them around his neck, nor the delicious swell of her heaving breasts as she pressed herself against him.
What choice had he then, but to utterly surrender to her? With an instinct wrought of passion, for it surely was not born of experience, Erik closed his shaking arms around her and sank into her kiss. He drowned in Christine's embrace as his lips moved and answered the siren's call of her unrepentant mouth. Surely, this was the most beautiful moment of his life, or perhaps it was the moment his life would actually finally begin. He was not certain, he could not be sure of anything as he held his darling nightingale in his arms, except for this woman who accepted and wanted him for the man that he was. And because of this flawless piece of knowledge, Erik knew he could not allow the Vicomte and the gendarmes to kill him tonight.
He would yet live.
He savored the taste of her, his Christine, the glass lotus shining and blossoming under his touch. Erik had been nothing before her acceptance, barely more than the personification of misery, a shadow gliding past the gates of Hell. Still, this young woman's infinite depths of compassion and love for him begged of him to be a better man, to be a man she could walk beside…
And he would be.
He would live for her, for the truth of her kiss had washed the blood from his soul. Her presence in his life, and her unconditional love humbled the stars, and brought him to his knees as he held her, taking her to the floor with him. They separated for a moment, only to catch their breath, gazing at one another in a shared wonder of what had just passed between them. In those rapturous moments, the Opera Ghost and his angel turned their backs upon the bleak world that had forgotten them, for they only existed for one another now. As it should be, Erik thought. Christine gifted him with the sweetest of smiles, an acknowledgment that his affections were wholly desired, before he once more took her lips, clutching her to his trembling form with a ravenous passion.
Christine Daae' wanted him.
She loved him.
I want to thank my Beta, AlfaDogThunder for all her continued support and advice, as well as her wonderful editing skills. Thank you to all readers that have been sticking with this story. The ride is just beginning. Please let me know your thoughts. Thanks so much- Jess