"You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me."
-Pablo Neruda
Christine
Christine Daae held the envelope to her breast, in a grasp one might use to hold and secure the largest of precious gems. She'd read and reread it several times, as if she could conjure Erik to appear before her with the repeated glancing at each single word. She had been unable to contain her joy upon opening the envelope, and a very excited and shrill squeal had replaced the loud sobs that had consumed her voice for the last several days. She could hardly believe that it would only be a matter of hours until she would see him again! But the hours would not pass with any speed. Christine could hardly trust in the thought that he would be in her arms before the next dawning of a new day. She knew, however, that once she held him, inhaled the singular scent of sandalwood and candlewax- the scent of him- and embraced his TALL,wiry frame against her small body, she would be HOME
But how would she fill the hours until the moment arrived? Christine examined herself in the mirror for the first time in many days, her appearance and health having become mere afterthoughts in her anguish. As she regarded herself in the glass, she wondered what Erik would think of his lovely ingenue, now so unkempt and haggard, wearing a cloak of depression as an invisible weight upon her slim shoulders. Would he still remain as captivated with her as he'd always been? In her own observations, she appeared a ghost of her former self. . . made a spectre in her longing for the ghost she claimed as her own. Truly, Christine knew that Erik would never find her anything less than beautiful. She would remain his petite ange. But, the need to prepare herself for their anticipated reunion was a pressing matter.
Surely, she must bathe and repair the damage of all her despair, from taming the rat's nest of her dark curls, to pressing the wrinkles out of her gown, and concealing all those small bruises that remained from her punching at walls in anger, slamming her fists at the injustice of it all. Her cheeks, once so clear and porcelain, now appeared sallow and wane, the rosiness having faded from them many days ago. Dark circles hung under her heavy eyelids, lack of sleep and crying jags had left their mark.
Still, no matter, she would find her best dress from the clothing she had salvaged from the Louis-Phillippe room, each design handpicked by Erik, with her coloring and figure in mind. For her Erik was a maestro, a creator of all things beautiful, from sound, to light, form, stone, word, and painting. A master of all. Perhaps his genius of creating such incredible beauty was her God's recompense for his being born to such physical ugliness.
An ugliness that she had ceased to see many months ago, an ugliness Erik had made splendid and perfect in her eyes, and her soul. To her, he was incandescent, an otherworldly gemstone of effervescent and brilliant colors shining out of a sea of bland, ordinary people, as common as the gray cobblestones she walked every day. No, Erik shone in a different realm, one far greater than that which existed underneath her tiny, booted feet. And, she would meet him there, in that realm of his creation.
Reluctantly, Christine set the letter down on the bedside table, and checked the guest bedroom lock again, for even though she feared nothing from Darius or Nadit, she still did not wish for an unexpected guest as she shed her clothes to bathe. And, this afternoon, she would take her time. She poured the scented oils Erik had left for her in her underground toilette into the bathtub, and let the warm water run as she undressed. Christine smiled to herself, knowing without being told explicitly, that the plumbing of Nadir's home, as well as the current of electricity running through the flat's lighting had all been her lover's work. As the warm water poured, the sound of it filling the claw-footed tub calming, the young mademoiselle shed ber garments and hung them from a hook on the bathroom door.
Sitting first on the edge of the tub, Christine dangled her tiny, bare feet over the rim, and allowed them to play under the running water that poured from the brass faucet. How she loved the warm water, the feeling of it as it touched her flesh never ceased to stir memories of her childhood by the sea with her Papa. And there had been someone else there in the innocent days of her youth. A charming young boy who had fetched her red scarf from the sea and made her promises never to be fulfilled, a boy that had grown into a young nobleman. . .she would not think of him now. Perhaps never again. Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, now served as a blemish upon her memory. He had never truly known her since he'd rediscovered her at the Opera, had never cared or attempted to contact her in the years that had separated them, until he'd witnessed her triumphant debut in Hannibal all those months ago. . .Raoul had wished to make a trophy of her then, an ingenue and the toast of Paris on his arm.
Those thoughts and memories only brought Christine disgust now. Raoul had ripped Erik from her arms in the most violent manner.
Yes, it was best not to entertain those painful memories, especially when new, vibrant ones were to be made when Erik returned to her.
Christine, satisfied that the bathtub was warm and full, slowly sank her body into the liquid sanctuary of it. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on the edge of the marble as she found a comfortable position. Erik's stunning and singular music reverberated through her eardrums and her mind. His remembered voice, the most perfect of instruments known to this tortured world, circled in potent strummings that shot through her limbs and landed in the twin cores of her heart and the heated flesh that made her a woman in flesh and soul. Her body flushed with an inner heat, and she began to hum his melodies in a light but passionate tone.
She flexed her back against the wall of the basin, seeking a pressure that did not exist, but one that she craved. The thoughts of her reunion with Erik had ignited a flame she knew not how to quell. But, as she sang his beautiful tones in her mind, her passion and need for him began to bloom in a violent and delicious wave. Christine looked to the door to assure herself it was thoroughly locked, before opening her thighs and snaking a hesitant and curious hand down to her sex. Her eager fingers threaded through the dark curls at the apex of her thighs in search of the secret place of pleasure she had only discovered and entertained on two previous occasions, both of which had occurred following some intensely passionate voice lessons with her Maestro. Upon finding the aching source of her desire, Christine massaged and fondled the little bud of her sex, her eyes remaining closed as she bit her lip and arched her back. The image stirring in her mind of her reunion with Erik spurred on her desire. Her flesh was wet, hot, and screaming for him. The tiny nerve endings that the pads of her fingers caressed and swirled caused her hips to buck upwards, and the water to slosh back and forth in the tub.
"Erik," she gasped, unable to wrangle her powerful desire and most secret need. But, oh how she needed more! She needed HIM so greatly. Her own ministrations would never be enough for her newly awakened passion, the desires from which she had fled in fear since the first night he had come to her in the flesh. Christine sought fullness and the press of his long frame against her flesh, and as she placed a finger inside of herself, pumping it vigorously, and the other at her nipple, pinching and learning, all the while knowing that her own touch would not quench the unattainable physical need she craved for his own. In her mind, as it had been the two previous instances, she envisioned his long beautiful fingers touching her, relishing the feel of her moist flesh.
For now, it must suffice, there was no other option. And of course, he would insist they marry before he took her. Christine would be patient. She had little choice in the matter. She continued to caress herself until her climax spun through every nerve ending of her small body, before collapsing in a boneless heap, her arms hanging over the edges of the tub like limp rags. The cooling water licked and rippled against her skin as she slowly calmed and fell back to Earth.
She would dress and be ready for Erik's arrival. Very, very ready.
Christine Daae left the tub with a slight reluctance, her cheeks and body heated from her endeavors. She reached for the towel on the hook to her left and took the time to dry her body, limb by shivering limb. The first and second time she had touched herself for pleasure, she had felt an unnatural but very real shame, as if a cloud of judgment had passed over her and lingered in the space of her heavy breathing climax. But, not this time. Her yearning was too honest now, her need too great. The honesty of her self-pleasure was reassuring and natural. Just as the ballet rats had said it would be. . .The tiny snippet of overheard conversation made her giggle as she dressed, "You won't make a baby from your own hands, ladies. . ."
Erik would return to her in a matter of hours. At the least, his letter had promised her as much. Christine took her time dressing, and as she covered each limb, first into a fresh chemise and corset, and then into her lilac dress- a color she knew he adored on her- Christine smiled and recalled the memory of his precious and awkward compliment as he'd glimpsed her in that pastel shade for the first time.
"You look so very lovely, Christine. This lilac, the lavender, and your shining curls." He had stood so close to her in that moment, his hand drifting over but not touching her face. "You are an angel," he'd said, and stepped away, hiding his yearning in the music scores at the piano, long fingers slipping aimlessly through the loose pages.
Slightly taken aback by such a rare and vulnerable compliment from her Maestro, Christine could do little but offer him a warm and gentle smile, his sweetness having stirred an unfamiliar giddiness within her. "Thank you," she whispered, stepping closer to him, her body and soul inexplicably drawn to him. But for each step she took to once more close the distance between them, Erik had retreated another. Was he frightened of her, the proximity of her body in relation to his? Had he never been so close to a woman? For Christine knew well of his affliction, the curse he bore had long since ceased to frighten or disgust her. It was simply a part of him and who he was. A very unique part of the man that she, in that time, had not realized that she loved.
Now, as Christine took her time in dressing for his expected arrival, she buttoned each fastener of the bodice with great attention to her appearance, a meticulous energy guiding her movements. She wished to be perfect for him. Perfect, yet familiar. His loving fiancée waiting for him with open arms. Her own arms trembled with anticipation.
Sitting at her vanity table, fully prepared after setting her hair combs in place, Christine could do nothing but trade glances to check her appearance in the glass and stare at the limitless passing of minutes on the taunting clock hung above the vanity. The hours could not and would not pass as quickly as she wished them to. Recalling that Erik's note had requested that the balcony doors to her bedroom remain unlocked, Christine made her way to them and checked to assure her lover would have little difficulty entering, well entering the room, climbing the walls was another matter entirely. But one, she was certain her Phantom would not find an impediment.
Satisfied with her preparations, Christine trounced down the spiral staircase to the sitting room, where she found her two kind hosts sipping tea and enjoying their novels. She cleared her throat gently in an effort to announce her presence. Both men looked up from their readings with a start, their eyes widening in admiration at the sight of the stunning young women who stood in the doorway.
"Oh, gentleman, please don't look so shocked. I do not always look the part of a grieving guttersnipe," She smirked and twirled around in her silken lilac skirts.
"Indeed, mademoiselle Daae, you are radiant as a Spring morning in the Bois," Darius remarked, captivated by her loveliness.
"Thank you, Darius. My grief had stolen the sunlight from me for days now. But, now, I am full of joy. But, I have something very small to ask of the both of you this coming evening, if I may?" Christine fiddled with the fabric at her sleeves, suddenly hesitant, unsure of what Nadir and Darius might infer from the request she would make. She paused, nervous to speak.
"Christine, what is it that you require?" Nadir set aside his book and looked at her with kind, olive tinted eyes.
"Well, when he comes. . .when Erik arrives, may we be left alone? I know that both of you are also anxious to see him again, but please allow us some privacy to speak this evening. We have much to discuss, and. . ."
And other private things, Christine thought.
"Your wish for privacy is happily granted. How could we refuse the future Madame Opera Ghost, hmm, Darius?" Nadir offered them both a knowing smile. Darius simply nodded.
Blushing, Christine stared at the floor. "Thank you both for this. For everything," and with that, she turned on the heel of her slipper and retreated back up the stairs.
"Darius, we cannot stand in the way of passion, now can we?" Nadir chuckled and casually reached for his tea. "Let us make ourselves scarce this evening, hmm?"
"Of course, sir. Of course," was Darius' only response.
Erik worried with his cravat for what might be the tenth time as he stood in front of the smeared glass mirror. Normally he abhorred such things as studying his appearance in the mirror- past experiences having brought him nothing but anguish since the first time he had glimpsed the horror that was his reflection. He'd only ever kept one in the Louis-Phillipe room while festering away in his home in the cellars of the Opera. Had kept it out of necessity, in order to view just how well he had concealed his disfigurement before leaving for a night's errand. There had been many times in his solitary existence underneath the Garnier, that he'd considered smashing it and throwing its brittle, reflective shards into the lake. Let them Siren cut herself upon them, he'd thought.
But then Christine had entered into his life and from the first moment Erik had heard her glorious voice, had seen the innocent beauty of her eyes, and witnessed the sweetness of her soul, Erik had known that he would create a place for her to dwell within his home, a space that would imitate the divine palace of beauty in which he resided in his heart. So, he had left the damned glass on the wall. Women, especially young and beautiful ones, loved to look at themselves and preen before a fancy evening out on the gaslight streets of Paris, did they not? For as little as he knew of the fairer sex, Erik knew this.
At present, however, the former Opera Ghost could find little satisfaction with his own appearance, the cravat not straight enough, the cufflinks of his jacket too loose, even the placement of the white half mask covering the right side of his face seemed slightly askew. He exhaled a dissatisfied groan and turned away from his reflection.
"I see the almighty Phantom of the Op'ra is having some nerves, ay?" Stitch chuckled with utter delight as he entered the room, a glass of brown liquid in each of his hands.
"I dare say that love has made me daft and sloppy, my good doctor," Erik slumped into a nearby chair in defeat.
Stitch chuckled and foisted one of the glasses he'd brought towards his friend's bowed head. "Well, it seems I've brought just the right tonic for your condition, my friend. Here," he jostled the glass again until Erik took it. "It's a fine whisky, one of my favorites."
Without another word, Erik lifted his head and tilted the amber colored contents of the glass to his open mouth, swallowing half the contents in a single swig.
"Ah, that's a good lad, takes the edge off. Now, let me see how I can ease your anxiety. Is there anything you require for me to fetch for you or the lady Christine this evening? Flowers? A fine bottle of wine, perhaps?"
Erik waved a silent hand in dismissal, before pounding the remaining liquid down his throat and setting the glass down with a clink. "I don't think this will be the occasion for wine or flowers, my friend. I think there is far too much. . .too much to be said between us before romance could be considered" Removing his mask, he buried his eyes in his large, pale his head slowly back and forth as he did so. "I deserted her, Malcolm," he moaned, the rawness of regret evident in his voice.
The brevity in Stitch's expression at the use of his given name, as well as his guest's despairing tone, disappeared entirely. He leaned in towards his friend and set his hand on Erik's sharp shoulder, "You did what you must to save her. You know that as well as I," and then after a slight pause, as he squeezed the bone under his swarthy palm, "She also knows that."
"I will beg her forgiveness on my knees this evening. And her forgiveness is all I seek. I have no expectations for a joyous reunion given all that she had endured by loving me."
With a swift and rough jerk to Erik's shoulders, Stitch balked and stood up, his voice no longer solemn, but boisterous. "Now, that's absolutely the wrong way to approach this! I can't believe you're deciding to be defeated before you even see her again? How can you know how she is feeling, and how she will accept you? Did she not pledge her love to you on the greatest stage in all of Paris? Risk her life, her reputation, her career to follow you? And you sit here like a whimpering dog, feeling sorry for yourself, when all you have to do is rally and go to the girl!" Stitch swigged at his own glass, emptying its two fingers, and slammed it down on a nearby table. "Really, Erik? I thought you made of stronger stuff than a poor sop wallowing in his own misery. If you go to her in this state, then surely, she will be puzzled. May even turn you away. Go to her as you always have, confident in her feelings for you, and your own for her."
Erik sat up stock-still, rigid as a plank, as he let the doctor's words sink in and break through the formidable blockade he'd created from a lifetime of insecurities and hateful words thrown to him. In the past, he would have seethed with a barely concealed anger to be chastised by another in such a blatant manner, but not this time. This time, he knew that the person correcting him, grounding him, was correct, and that Stitch's stern words came from a place of caring. It struck Erik with a deep warmth in that moment, as he realized that he now had another friend, someone he could trust, someone that wished for his happiness.
Friendship had always existed as a transient gift in his life, ebbing and flowing as he traveled, fleeting and flowing on the unpredictable waves of his own actions. Not taking another moment to wallow in his self-hatred, Erik rose from his chair, straightening the lapels of his suit jacket as he reclaimed his composure, his commanding presence restored once more. "In my past, sir, I might have dealt blows to a man brave or stupid enough to come at me with words, but I am not the same man I was before, and I now know that you speak from a place of caring. You are correct. I have been dwelling in my own self-pity. Perhaps," and Erik struggled to speak the words, "Perhaps, I am a coward. Having never truly felt a lingering sense of happiness, of never having the desires of my heart realized. . .perhaps I am simply afraid to claim the joy that is so near to my grasp."
"A fear of the unknown haunts the Opera Ghost," Stitch added under his breath.
Erik glanced at himself once more in the mirror glass, adjusting the wig and mask. Satisfied, he turned to the doctor, his true friend, and clasped him on the arm. "Thank you for everything. Your friendship and compassion have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated." At a loss for further words, Erik moved to gather his cloak and hat. "This will not be goodbye,"
Doctor Stitch accompanied him towards the door, nodding. "No, mon ami, Monsieur Le Fantome, it is only a bientôt!." With a firm pat on the back, Erik's host hustled him out of the house. "She is waiting for you." The doctor's face was a calm breath of compassion as he saw his guest out the door.
The night air wrapped around Erik's lean form as he made his way to the Persian's home. His heart thrummed with a raw energy he could scarcely contain. It thrummed the two syllables of her name in a violent palpitation. "Christine, Christine. . .'
The very thought of her, the smooth porcelain of her skin, the kindness in her brown eyes, the mellifluous timbre of her magnificent voice, all of these things spurred him onwards as he climbed and slid between alleys and rooftops on his way to reach his muse The journey seemed far too long, such was his desperate eagerness to get to his Christine. The agile and dangerous jumps between rooftops, and the risk of exposure in the early evening light did not even register with Erik, for he was a man on a mission, one thought captivating every nerve ending of his body, every brain wave. His caution and grace never wavered as his heels alit with a crisp hint of sound upon each rooftop, each landing of his shoe to the ground marking no more noise than that of a crinkled Autumn leaf falling to the forest floor. He used extreme caution as he traversed his makeshift path to the Persian's home, always mindful of the slightest noise, the flickering of movement caught in the corner of his vision. Erik measured every step, calculated each maneuver from start to finish before undertaking any endeavor. And this endeavor, this one, was the greatest and most meaningful of his tortured existence.
At last, his mismatched eyes, one pale clouded blue, and the other amber as a honeycomb, settled on the balcony he sought, as sweet, orange moonlight dappled across the glass panes of its open doors. It struck him in that moment, the sight of the welcoming doors, that Christine had received and read his missive. Committed it to memory, perhaps? She was waiting for him, just a few paces, a handful of leaps, a thundering of heartbeats away. The enormous potency of that very serene realization stopped Erik in his tracks. How would he greet her? What should he say? What apology could possibly suffice for his abandonment of her in those dark moments in the tunnels that cursed evening? An evening that held so much promise for their future. The words he had screamed at her, the insults he'd snarled in a desperate attempt to make her flee from him, wounded as he was. . .
It was all for naught. He would simply come as the wounded, broken man that he was, the one she had always known, the man she had chosen to love. He only hoped she chose to love him now. As he approached the balcony, Erik'ss heart swelled and seemed to bottom out in a silent reverence for the moment that would soon arrive. Christine would see him, would choose whether or not to accept him. He need only present himself to her and allow her decision to dictate his fate. This was the final thought that came to him as he ascended the ornate ironwork of her balcony.
His footfalls were silent, and he paused at the sight of his beloved. Christine stood before her vanity mirror, her back to him, her fingers twining into her curls. She was a vision in lilac satin that complimented the paleness of her skin. Erik found himself unable to move or to breath, overcome with emotion at once more being in her presence. "Christine," he whispered, so quietly that if she had not been expecting him, she may not have detected the syllables of her name carried upon the wind coming in from the balcony doors.
She swiftly turned around, her hands falling to her sides. "Erik." It came out as a great sob, her answer to him, full of equal parts anguish and joy. Christine rushed across the room to him, arms outstretched and flung herself against the solid strength of his chest. "Oh, my darling," she whimpered, "You've returned to me." Her tears fell freely against the cloth of his shirt, wetting the fine fabric
"Christine, oh my sweet angel. . ." Erik's hands came around her, one at her back, pulling her closer, and the graceful long fingers of his other hand resting in her tresses, caressing her head if only to convince himself that yes, she was here, and she was real. "Christine, look up at me. I need to see your beautiful face. I need to see the love in your eyes. I am so afraid this is all a dream."
"No dream," was her response as she lifted her tear stricken face to his. "Though, I too, can scarcely believe you are here." Christine lifted her hand to his face, and gently removed his mask. He allowed her to do so without resistance. "Let me see you now, as well, "she whispered. "Let me touch you." Erik bent his head lower, allowing her fingertips to graze the malformations of his cheek, the bloated corner of his lips, and the concave side of his nose. Her touch was sweet and gentle, reverent, as if discovering the delicate facets of a fine gemstone for the first time.
"No one has ever touched my face with such . . .I cannot find the words, Christine. I cannot find the words for any of this." Erik leaned further into her caress, his own tears now falling.
"The words you are searching for do not matter now, Erik. You are here with me now. That is what matters." Christine rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his distorted cheek. In response, he placed his palms on her shoulders, gently pushing her back.
"How can this be possible? That you still wish to be with me after the horrible words that I said to you? After I fled from you? Can you ever forgive me, Christine?" Erik fell to his knees before her, penitent and broken.
"You did what you must," she answered, her hands still holding to his face as he knelt before her. "For your own safety, for mine."
"The last time I entered unannounced through your balcony doors, I came to beg for your love. I do so again now. Please tell me, Christine, as i place myself at your mercy, on my knees before you, are you mine? Will you still have your poor Erik?"
A fresh spring of tears welled in Christine's pale, blue eyes, causing them to gleam like sapphires. "How can you even ask, my love?" She sank to her knees, shoving her voluminous skirts away in order to be closer to him. "There will be time, so much time, my Erik, to discuss our times of separation, but now. . .but now, you are here with me!" Christine edged ever closer, and cupped his jaws in her palms. "If you do not kiss me at this very moment, I may very well die!" She smiled up at him, her gaze full of adoration and longing.
Erik grabbed for her with all the desperation of a drowning man reaching for the shoreline, his hands tangling in her hair, at her waist. And once they were chest to chest, hearts throbbing together at an equal, excited pulse, the former Opera Ghost took the lips of his beloved in a crushing kiss. The world around them fell away, for in that perfect moment, there existed only them. The time would come for planning their future, for discussing the hurdles and hardships they had yet to overcome, but for now, they were together, Christine Daae and her Angel of Music. As they embraced, the gentle Parisian breeze coming through the balcony doors wafted across their joined bodies, the scent of the amber gaslights familiar and comforting. Once more, in each other's arms, they were home.