Her fingers stung from the cold as she tore off her gloves, hastily pushing the door open to the dressing room with a shoulder. She had seen winters far harsher than this, the ones that had laced her childhood, yet a chill had seemed to seep into her bones. Shrugging off her cloak, Christine slumped rather gracelessly into her chair, only to be faced with the mirror's reflection. Dark rings coloured the skin under her azure eyes and she sighed, fingers mechanically fixing her hair for rehearsal. She glanced over Carlotta's array of lavish tools of beauty, overtly conscious of her almost sickly appearance, but decided against it; when Carlotta returned, which was a certainty, such a thing could easily spark her outstanding temper.
It had been a week, no, perhaps even ten days or so, since she had seen her Angel. Not an angel, Christine reminded herself with a shiver. The Phantom. A man, a strange, rage-filled man, so severed, so different to the heavenly voice that had guided her. That voice had been stern but ever gentle, so soft, so passionate, so warm that she had let herself get lost amongst it. Alas, that voice indeed was his and belonged solely to him, the man that had terrified her, that had intrigued her, threatened her, begged her.
A man with such a face…
Christine felt a wave of nausea rise in her gut at the memory flashing against her vision. Her fingers curling around the mask, a childish curiosity seizing her just as she seized that thin veil of fantasy and ripped it away from both of them. His face was frightening, with its dips and chasms, its contorted flesh and narrow scars, but it did not spur in her the same horror or blind panic as his eyes held when they met hers in that second of realisation. Burning, amber eyes, like melted gold. His shriek had been inhuman, but she could still hear the unmistakable strains of anguish and hurt piercing within her head. Any initial apology of her betrayal had been overshadowed by his unforgiving grip and horrible fury. The names spat in growls as he had flung her to the floor, her mind reeling and her body alight with the need to run. She had leapt to escape but he had caught her easily with his hand, a musician's hand which could produce such beautiful melodies. In that moment it became the hand of any other brute.
She shook her head slightly, blinking back to reality, urging down the images of him, palm clasped to his face, his dreaded face, reaching for her as he lay crumpled in the darkness of his home beneath the opera, promising her of things she knew he could not.
"Fear can turn to love…"
Crawling, begging, closer, closer, his voice tight and earnest. She did not know what to do, she did not know what to give except his mask. His haughty air had immediately returned, his dark, tall figure which had entranced her and encased every inch of her in its embrace suddenly primal and intimidating as he stood over her. And then there was simply silence.
Christine hadn't slept a full night since. Still acting as Carlotta's understudy, the fatigue had begun to worry her beyond her own health; she dreaded the day where it would doom a performance, killing her career before it had even begun. Groaning, she kneaded her eyes with the heels of her hands. Why couldn't she sleep?
That's a stupid question Christine. You see his face every night, you hear his voice in your dreams…
She was simply still shaken from the whole thing, she rationalised. Who wouldn't be? When an angel becomes a monster, one may need some time to process things! A part of her, that same little voice which had reminded her of the precise cause of her insomnia, also reminded her of the coldness of her skin and how it prickled and itched, yearning for him against every instinct and sensible thought. She began to think of the life a creature such as her poor maestro must have led with such…deformities, yet possessing such talent, wit and feeling. A gift from God marred by a jealous devil, and for some reason that thought almost drew tears from her tired eyes.
"…to find the man behind the monster, this repulsive carcass…" His snarl seemed to shake the core of her, still reverberating in her ears.
Her heart tightened with shame as she relayed her actions again and again, prodding at her regret and stoking her anger. The questions which had plagued her conscience reared again. Why had she done such a silly thing? Why had he lied to her so? Why couldn't things be the way they were? Why hadn't he come back to her? What would she do if he would not teach her? No other teacher, she was certain, could draw such power and grace from her throat as he had, stirring passion she did not know existed from within her being to form golden notes.
A knock at the door startled Christine back to awareness. Letting out a last whimpering exhale, she fixed a smile and rose.
Come on Christine, you are not a child! You will push through this day, just as you have done many times now. Do not think of him!
But it was as if he had trickled into her very being, and so the weight in her chest pressed against her heart even as she made her way to the stage.
I will find a way to talk to him. That way, things may be mended, I will have my tutor back, and perhaps I will not have to feel this sick anymore.
…..
The lair below the opera was silent, as it had been for days. Erik was hunched over his beloved organ, willing something, some scrap of music, to burst from his fingertips. Instead, he was greeted with paralysed motionless and a disconcerting quietness. He glanced down at his pocket watch, smoothing his thin, wayward hair against his head.
She will be rehearsing…
Growling, he slammed his fists against the keys. It had taken every fibre of his wavering self-control to stop himself from watching her, from visiting her or attempting to throw his disembodied voice around her dressing room as he once had. Fear and disgust hummed within his head like a swarm of wasps, the white noise blocking out any melodies and even the sound of her flawless 'Hannibal' aria he had committed to memory. She had been glorious, the ways her eyes had shone, her face so bright it could have drowned the sun and her smooth tones dripping into his very soul like velvet moonbeams.
If he had a soul, if the devil had been kind enough to grant him just that.
It was then that he shared her intoxicating joy, and in his giddiness decided that to solely be a divine voice, untethered to a body, was simply not enough. He did have a body, grotesque as it was, and God, how he ached for her presence, to be near and feel her gentle warmth, her softness, to be close enough to see the tremor of a blushing lip or feel the vague breath of her batted eyelashes…
And when he had engulfed her in his world, how she had melted against him…
But it did not matter now. He had seen her terror and now that the illusion was shattered, he knew she would not return to him. He wondered dimly if she would send the masses after him since having discovered the secret damnation of the Opera Ghost, but considering time had passed normally and he had not been ripped limb from limb, he supposed that she wouldn't.
Oh, her face…
Horror and shock corrupting her beautiful features as his fingers laced around the delicate flesh of her arm, surely leaving bruises, leaving his defilement on her skin. The image of a frightened little girl crying in the opera's lonely corridors had sparked in front of his eyes and torn at his heart and gut, but it had been shaken away. Because he had wanted to hurt her for what she had done because it was irreversible. He knew it although he wished desperately that he didn't. Even now he felt bile rising in his throat at the true consequence of his blind rage, sending a cold shiver down his back. How could have let himself lose control with her? Why had he let her see him? Well, now he would pay the price, refused by his angel who was his one and only blessing.
It is better this way. You will not ruin her any further, and she can have her Vicomte…
His jaw clenched in restrained bloodthirst. The Vicomte, however, he would have been happy to throw to the ground, except then perhaps he would have wrung the bastard's neck, giving himself an added pleasure by abandoning the Punjab lasso in favour of his bare hands. The pretty Vicomte with his pretty words in her dressing room…the smiles he drew out of dearest Christine made Erik's chest inflame with something desperately raw. Where was he before Erik had urged her into a prima donna, when she was a fatherless child alone in the world?
God, how much easier it would have been if she had stayed a child! I could go on fostering her skill like some decrepit false-father…but she is now not a child, she is a woman, a real, living woman crafted by Aphrodite herself…
Erik's heart ached suddenly as a surge of desire pulsed through his veins, a strange concoction of animalistic possession and sweet tenderness at the image of her lovely face. Dazzling blue eyes, always wide to the wonder of the world and alive with such spirit, flawless porcelain skin, silken mahogany curls, a rose-pink cheek, a smirking half-smile…
"What do you think you are doing, my dear?"
Her startled gaze had shot to the ceiling, still frozen in the act of devouring a tin of Turkish delights. Swallowing convulsively, she wiped her mouth and gasped "n-nothing, ange." Erik couldn't help the grin as he watched through the mirror with scorching amber eyes.
"I thought we had agreed, my darling Christine, that sweets were only acceptable on special occasions. You do not want your teeth rotting, now do you?"
Or for your delicious figure to spoil for that matter…
"Meg gave them to me! It was a Christmas present, and as an angel you surely cannot be against gifts which honour the birth of our saviour!" She pouted, her voice thick and tinged with sugary sweetness, eyebrows scrunched together in innocence.
"Come come Christine, Christmas is still over a week away."
He could see her mind churning until she finally bowed her head, defeated.
"I…opened them early. It is very bad of me, I know it ange, but they did just look so divine in their little decorated tin and it is wicked but, in honesty my angel, you cannot eat Turkish delights and so cannot truly understand how difficult it was to resist…" Her eyes flickered with sudden realisation at her words and her hands flew up to cover her mouth, gaping helplessly far above her.
"Are you suggesting that you succumb so easily to temptation?" Erik barely attempted to mask the smile in his tone. Christine, however, was so preoccupied with her apparent blasphemy that she missed it, falling instead to her knees in red-faced trembling shame.
"Forgive me, Angel of Music, for my rashness…" She began but Erik, in a flood of carelessness, was quick to put a stop to such masochism.
"You are forgiven, my dear. Turkish delights, after all, are many a saint's failing."
And the humoured, impish giggle she gave almost completely broke his resolve…
Damn it, the infernal girl was his! They were tied together by some dreamlike bond, he was sure of it. She would sing his music and cast his melodies to the heavens. If only he hadn't faltered and succumbed to earthly fantasies and weakness! Besides, she needed him, despite it all. He knew that such a gift had to be nurtured, trained, perfected.
Resolute, Erik got to his feet, pacing stridently to fetch his wig and mask. His hands were already shaking but he managed to secure his cloak before checking the time again. Rehearsals were nearly over, and Christine would be returning to the dressing room soon.
I will convince her to talk to me, and all of this beastliness will be forgotten and things will be as they were. And perhaps I will learn to be content with the part of her I do have, and not ask for more…
Doubt was creeping into the corners of his buzzing mind even as he descended to the lake, all the while trying to ignore the swell in his heart in the hope of seeing her again.