264DOWN ONCE MORE
Nadir Khan hesitated uneasily outside the Scribe Street entrance of the Palais Garnier. Some odd combination of instinct and a healthy dose of pessimism left the heavy clouds of foreboding crowding his vision. Erik hadn't met with him last week, a strange and unsettling breach of conduct. Even more unsettling was that the Persian had found Christine Daaé returning to him of her own accord. Such a strange girl! A plain, pale face, a wretched limp, and a voice like the first breath of spring in the final days of winter. Yes, her voice, even in the simple act of speaking, was as beautiful as a note drawn from a viola. Nadir regretted missing her triumph in Hannibal. He unlocked the gates and stealthily slipped from the streets of Paris into the subterranean realm of his old friend. It wasn't even a full minute when …
"Daroga." The voice-that voice!-materialised maddeningly out of thin air, as it always did.
Nadir was about to launch a few good-natured jests, when he noticed by lantern-light that Erik's demeanour was different tonight; he seemed preoccupied; agitated, even. And the Persian could very well guess the source of his tension.
"How is Mademoiselle Daaé, Erik?" Nadir asked. "She was unwell last we met."
"Better," Erik replied succinctly. He shot a warning glance at Nadir that would have set many a man back several steps, but the Persian knew better.
"She is a sweet girl," he ventured further. "I only met her briefly, but she was polite and pleasant. But something was troubling her."
"What?"
Nadir sighed. He could see unmistakably that Christine Daaé cared deeply for Erik. He had let Erik's certainty convince him years ago that the masked man was unlovable. Could it be that someone finally dared to see beyond his horrifically-scarred face?
"Daroga," Erik began with difficulty, earnestly removing his hat. "Nadir, my friend; what am I to do? She has consumed my life… what life I had left in this crypt. A life as," he made a noise too sad to be snort, "a ghost! I am weary of being a Phantom. So tired of it. I want to move on, I want …" Nadir willed him on, hoping his friend would open up more, but Erik paused, and chose a disappointing noun. " … company."
"Alone is not alive, Erik. You're not a living corpse." Nadir searched for words to get through to his friend. "You need someone to make you aware of being alive."
Until death takes me, I swear the darkest recesses of my mind shall be tormented by a singular sound.
Ripping away Erik's mask in one hand, and his sleek wig in the other, he recoiled straight away, screaming.
Not crying out or yelping or whimpering. And no stunned silence. Erik screamed with all the power of his extraordinary, agonised voice, as though under duress of fatal physical torture, or a child trapped by decades' worth of nightmares. And distantly, there was the buzz of the audience's horror.
I stood paralysed; numbly, I realised that I, too, was seeing the full extent of his deformity for the first time. Yes, I had seen the swollen twist of his lips, the deep ridges and pockmarks of his cheek, the sunken socket of his cataract-pale eye … But now I finally saw that he possessed very little real hair that sprouted in sparse grey wisps; but most noticeable and frightening was a round section where it seemed as though his scalp had been torn away-or never grown there in the first place-leaving only a membrane over bare bone and an unsightly mass of discoloured scar tissue.
A startlingly close gunshot made me practically leap straight in the air; it launched Erik into action as well. He grabbed my arm roughly, sweeping his cloak around me, and hurried me upstage, behind the flat, painted set pieces. Behind us, I could hear chaos erupting, others screaming … I thought I might have recognised Meg's shrill cry.
I stumbled in the dim lights backstage, pitching forward. Erik tightened his grip on my forearm, breaking my fall, but it hurt. Instinctively, I knew I'd bear bruises by tomorrow.
"Erik," I panted. "Wh-where are we going?"
Brutally, he answered, "Down once more."
No one else was around. Almost without even looking, he bent and opened a trap door in the floor that I had never seen before. It lay tucked behind many set tracks and was covered in dust-clearly he had not used it recently.
My heavy wig had come loose; I clawed at it until it dropped away. Erik took my newly-shorn head in stride, not even bothering to say anything. I'm sure he realised that it was not a big loss to me. It wasn't as though I actually had a head full of lush dark chocolate-coloured curls.
"Go," he said curtly, gesturing. I peered down nervously into the darkness until I saw a ladder that led down to a passage illuminated by a single lantern.
It scared me, but I set my jaw and determined not to protest. I was afraid, of course. Even though I had succeeded at getting Erik off stage and away from present danger, I wasn't sure at what cost. If I listened hard enough, I could still hear his anguished cries. Would he ever forgive me? I recalled the first time I had unmasked him, and that barely-restrained backhand he had nearly dealt me. Would he hurt me? I shut my eyes briefly. After what I just did to him, surely I deserved his wrath. I carefully descended the cold metal ladder until my feet touched the stone floor.
His immense dark cloak billowed like a breaking storm cloud as he jumped the last rung. Swooping like a hawk, he snatched up the flickering lantern, and took my hand brusquely. We spoke not a word until we reached the docked gondola, where the corridor opened up abruptly onto the lake. I gazed out on the bluish mist that lay floating atop the leaden waters, and suddenly realised I was no longer afraid.
Of course I could drown; I couldn't swim. But deep down, I knew no matter how angry he was with me, Erik would pull me back.
Erik hooked the lantern on the front curlicue of the bow and picked up the long pole. A hint of his old tenderness returned as he led me into the boat. I sat warily on the familiar pile of cushions and bowed my head shamefully as I felt him shove off.
I knew I had to speak first. I was surprised to find the courage to do so easily within reach.
"I'm sorry," I said, keeping my eyes downcast, groping for eloquence and finding little.
He continued propelling the gondola without acknowledging me for several moments. Then he said in a quenched voice, "Why did you do it, Christine? How could you?"
I turned around on the cushions and craned my neck to peer up at him, fighting the tears away. "God, Erik, I couldn't let them kill you! I wouldn't have cared if they shot me, but he-they were going to murder you right there on the stage …I couldn't-wouldn't let them-"
I braced myself in case he would be angry, but instead he gave a dusty laugh and said, "Why not? I'm sure they would all get along happily without me."
"I wouldn't," I blurted. "I-"
I gasped as the portcullis rumbled to life before us.
I knew something was different in the House Beyond the Lake the minute I stepped into it. It took a few quick surveys before I realised that the covered mirror frame-which held the bizarre mannequin of myself-was uncovered and empty. The figure itself, unclothed, lay limply across Erik's black stone chair. Divested, it revealed its inner scaffolding of metal bands and mechanical joints. It was disturbing. I backed away from Erik, watching him guardedly. He shrugged away his costume cloak, revealing his immaculate nightly evening suit. It looked disjointed in its formality juxtaposed against Erik's exposed face and insubstantial greyish hair.
I slipped away quietly into my own bedchamber, as neat as I had left it, but laid out lovingly upon the bed was the glorious wedding gown. I shut the door behind me gently, and tentatively approached the garment. There was the ruched satin bodice buttoned from the lace-trimmed scoop neckline to its dropped double princess waist. From that deep, double triangle emerged asymmetrical eyelet ruffles that fell diagonally like a cyclone, covered in the back by an elegant waterfall bustle.
I lifted my hand as though to cover my mouth, before I saw a glint reflecting the lamplight.
The ring. Erik's ring. Here was the ring and the gown, and … here was the bride.
Shedding my costume, I stepped into the dress, raising the bodice and slipping my arms into its elbow-length sleeves. I patiently fastened the gown, adjusting its large bustle, and straightened the long button placket down the front. I felt no need to change out of my high black boots, so I summoned a long breath and opened the door. I gathered up my skirts and walked back out to the main chamber.
Erik turned at the sound of my uneven footsteps. Gathered in his hands was the long, snowy veil. He stared. And quite suddenly, the sight of that length of tulle terrified me.
"Oh God," I whispered. "I can't do this. Please, Erik…"
"Christine …" He looked bitter … resigned. Erik was expecting this sort of reaction. This rejection.
"Erik-it's not what you think. I was never meant to be a wife. What has ever come of marriage, anyway? Misery, doubts, and betrayal. What do you get?"
"Someone." A single, charged word was all that Erik uttered, still refusing eye contact. Abruptly, he changed subjects, his expression distant, almost imperceptibly rocking back and forth. "Since the day I was born, this face has denied me love, even from my own mother."
For some reason, that struck a chord in me. My memories of my mother were all so vague and beautiful, but were they ever warm or loving?
That troubled me briefly, but much less so than Erik's words. "How appalling! Erik, that was utterly heartless of her. She should have cherished you, regardless of your face."
"Do you think so?" He finally looked at me, his eyes haunted.
"Yes," I replied vehemently. "Erik, my father told me every day that he loved me no matter how I looked or moved. Anything less is horrible." I moved toward him and laid my hand across his wrist gently.
He dipped his chin slightly and said quietly, "You accepted my proposal, Christine."
I bit my lip and answered evenly, "That I did."
Could I vow fidelity forever to this man? I asked myself seriously. This was a decision I needed to make for myself, even with Erik watching me steadily. A part of me was still terrified of the commitment, and screamed in protest against losing my hard-earned independence. But another part asked seriously, what did I have left in my former life worth clinging to? Really, there was nothing to rejoice in. An oppressively lonely flat, an empty occupation, no real happiness anywhere.
Slowly, carefully, I took the wedding veil from him and placed it upon my head, settling the arrangement of white silk flowers among my short-cropped tresses.
A faint splashing interrupted me. Beyond the portcullis, there was sudden movement.
"Ah, my dear," Erik said icily, breaking out of his sad, pensive reverie. "I was unaware that we had invited company!"
"Raoul!" I yelped, appalled. I ran to him, and immediately accosted him with, "What are you doing here?"
"What-?" he stammered, brow raised in surprise. He was clearly expecting me to embrace him with relief. I saw him look me up and down, taking in my ivory wedding gown and bouquet of white roses, my cropped hair and long tulle veil. "You-your hair, Christine! And-and what are you wearing?"
"Don't ask questions," I said, low and hurried, "just go-get out of here, Raoul, and never look back!"
I tossed away the bouquet charily, and gripped the cold metal bars. Raoul touched my hands from the other side. I noticed dimly that his fine dress shirt was ripped down the front, and he was dripping wet. Good Lord, had he swam here?
He ignored my order to leave, and instead clenched his jaw tightly, his eyes darkening. "My God-has he hurt you, Christine?"
"No!" I answered vehemently. "But you have to-" Suddenly, the portcullis began to rise. Raoul ducked hastily under the edge and reached to embrace me. I wriggled out of his arms and stepped backward.
At the same time, he was saying, "I'm taking you with me, away from this madhouse-"
A low, silky voice interrupted us. "Monsieur you are most unfashionably late. And I'm afraid that no more guests shall be allowed to attend."
"Monster," Raoul growled. "Let her go! Damn you to bloody Hell if you've hurt her."
"Raoul!" I yelped, alarmed. "Don't!"
I turned to find Erik and implore him to let Raoul out, but he seemed to have melted away into the leering shadows around us. Suddenly, he appeared, looming up behind Raoul, looping a red noose around his throat. Raoul let out a choking cry as the end of the rope rose magically and held him taut. He rasped my name.
"Why are you doing this?!" I demanded shrilly.
"I won't abide his presence, Christine!" Erik shouted, grabbing my shoulders and giving me a tight shake. I pulled away violently, glaring at him. "He tempts you back to the world above. You will be my wife, or he dies."
"Erik, listen to me," I said severely, adding weight to each word, "If you kill him, I swear that I will hate you the rest of my days."
He flinched, and I continued my tirade. "How dare you? Do you truly not respect me enough to let me make a fair decision? I'm a woman of my word! You know that!"
Erik paced from the organ to his black stone throne and sat tiredly. I knew Raoul was gasping out his protests, but somehow, his presence vanished as I pursued Erik.
He rounded on me. "Oh? And yet you wore his ring next to your heart! You were so happy at the prospect of becoming a vicomtesse!" He produced the ring in question, and tossed it into the air. He caught it and pocketed it.
"Happy?" I almost laughed, but it came out as more of a sob. "I nearly took my own life in despair!"
"What?" Both men stopped. Raoul gazed at me with unhappily dawning realisation; and Erik with naked empathy and fierce protectiveness.
I slowly slipped the veil from my head and pressed my hands to my face. Exhausted, I dropped to my knees beside his seat. "God, Erik, this travesty needs to end."
"Then make your choice," Erik said softly, rising and turning away, his shoulders slumped. Choose between light and dark? No, I knew better. We were all composed of both illumination and shadow. We needed both, we needed balance, contrast … harmony.
I stared at Erik's back, the fine diamond-patterned wool that made up his beautifully-shaped tailcoat. And it felt as though a wave had swept over me. I was drowning, but it was no evil. This wave chased away my fear, my regrets, my final, tremulous uncertainties …
I loved Erik. No one else.
He was still full of anger and despair, his soul wrapped in ice; he was often cold, arrogant, ruthless, and cynical; he was brilliant, driven, and passionate. He bore a grave grudge against the world and humanity. He lived in exile, immersed in self-loathing and isolation.
But still I loved him. There was light lying dormant in him, and I held the spark to ignite it. I would give my life for him, and follow him to the ends of the earth. I would lay down in fire, imbibe poison, and tear my heart to pieces should he ask me to. He had hurt me too deep and forced me to care.
I rose from the floor and slowly approached him, laying my hand lightly on Erik's back. The touch startled him, and he spun around. In only a fraction of a second, I fingered the velvet lapels of his dress coat and looked up hesitantly into his incredulous mismatched eyes. That second seemed to stretch out at a terrifyingly slow pace; the momentum as we drew closer was terribly sluggish. And then we collided.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, I touched my lips to his, surprised at their warmth. Pressing my body close to his, I rose on tiptoes and gently turned the touch into a kiss. It was like discovering a long-lost piece of myself. But I felt with regret that he wouldn't touch me. Erik's kiss was shy, as though fearful of breaking something precious. I drew back only slightly and embraced him, putting my hands about his shoulders, at the back of his neck.
Near his ear, I whispered softly, "Don't be afraid. You're not alone anymore."
I kissed him deeply once more, gently drawing my hands across his face. A fine tremor had overtaken him, but at last I felt his arms around me timorously, a hand threaded in the thick pile of my shorn hair, the other at the small of my back. My fingertips tenderly traced the deep furrows of his cheek, the nearly-exposed bone of his brow, and his own hair, as soft and fine as a kitten's fur.
I hated to break from him, but we were both short of breath.
"I'm staying with you," I said firmly.
"I couldn't possibly ask you to-"
"It's my decision. My choice." I touched his scarred face. "And I choose to stay."
"Are you certain, Christine?" Erik asked quietly. "I will not hold you prisoner. You are free to leave me," he managed to say, swallowing hard, "if you so wish."
I tilted my head and gazed at him steadily. "Oh Erik … "
"Christine," he said softly. His bravura voice had never sounded so exquisite, so gracefully nuanced. "I love you."
"And I love you," I said ardently. Believe it, I willed him.
I cast a look at Raoul, who appeared numbly shocked. Looking back at Erik, I said quietly, "Let him go. He's no threat."
Erik blinked. He hesitated, fighting his instincts; then, he relented, "Very well. Take a candlestick and burn the thread at the end of the rope." I nodded, then reached shyly into his coat pocket and removed the ruby ring.
I reluctantly separated from Erik and approached my childhood best friend, the little boy who helped me build the tallest sand castles and chased me around the silky dunes of Bretagne. I could almost hear the gulls calling high above, and the surf whispering, feel the summery sea breeze. The thread that had held him broke with a flicker.
"Christine," began Raoul, absently rubbing his neck as he stared at me in utter disbelief. "You cannot be serious-"
"I am," I cut him off indignantly. Then, I softened my tone. "Raoul, my dear friend, please try to understand. I care for you, I truly do; but I don't love you. We do not belong together."
"But I lo-"
"No," I said sharply. "You love a memory of our shared past. And you love what I could be, not what I am. You would like to try to turn me into something perfect. Something I cannot be. For my sake, move on." I turned over the jewelled engagement ring in my hand. "I'm so sorry." I held out the ring to him at arm's length. "This is yours."
He hesitated a long moment, searching my face. The simple truth he had been denying all this time broke upon him at last. A measure of tension drained away as he gently took the ring, and clasped my hand with a benevolent grip. The portcullis groaned to life behind us, and we broke contact for the last time.
He ducked beneath it, and began to walk away, but abruptly stopped and turned back. "Christine!"
"Raoul?" I prayed he was not so stubborn as to change his mind.
But instead all he did was dip his chin in a nod, his sea-coloured eyes heart-rending. "I-I wish you only the best, Christine. Good luck to you."
"And to you," I said, returning his nod. "Good-bye, Raoul."
He bravely attempted a watery smile before returning to his lonely trek back up. My eyes misted at a memory: Raoul as a young boy, brandishing a wooden sword as he dashed across the sands of Perros-Guirec, guarding our clumsy sand palace. It was liberating to know that he was safe but no longer pursuing me. I immediately turned my attention back to Erik, who was watching the portcullis descend with the eye of a master mechanic.
I hobbled toward him, and he hastily took my hand in both of his. He squeezed my palm as though testing if I were an illusion, and kissed my rough knuckles tenderly. And before I knew what was happening, we were in each others' arms, both stricken with weeping. I with sniffles and gasps, he with long-repressed sobs. Two refugees from the cruelty of the world, together at last. Two incomplete puzzles, finding the missing pieces in each other. The sense of fulfilment was indescribable. I dwelt on how I had swallowed the idea that I would never be able to fall in love and have the emotion returned. All the pain I had nursed inside for so many years; all that vanity and bitterness, those endless tears and thick-skinned pride … was suddenly nothing but folly. It felt good that Erik ultimately trusted me enough to show such emotion, even in a torrent. At length, I kissed his forehead, and he nuzzled the crook of my neck and shoulder.
"Christine," he said, breaking the silence.
"Hm?"
"Your beautiful gown is all wet now."
"It'll dry," I answered. "And I won't shrink."
He actually laughed, no longer divinely imperious or cruelly mocking, but a good, true laugh. A prelude to happiness. I pressed my round nose to his crooked and half-fused one, and we kissed with great tranquillity now, breaking to lean our foreheads together.
"I … never thought I would have this," he whispered, barely a sound. "That I would have you. Everything seems right, everything seems possible. You've taught me something I never knew. "
"Oh?"
"I'm someone to be loved."
I laughed softly; he cupped my face in both his hands as I blushed. I couldn't resist smiling as I said, "It's as though you've stolen my very words."
Suddenly, distant voices filtered in from above us. Worried, I touched Erik's shoulder. "They're coming for us! What shall we do?"
He slowly looked the portcullis up and down, the learned cogs in his head working. At length he said, "We have to leave. For good."
"For good?" I repeated incredulously. "But-Erik, what of your home, and-and all your wonderful things-"
"All worthless to me now," he said gently, "since I have your love, Christine."
I put my arms around him again, and answered, "That you do."
He kissed the top of my head and murmured, "Will you come with me?"
I drew back and nodded. "Anywhere you go."
Meg Giry was anxious. She felt an intense sting of regret for the distance that had sprung up between herself and her surrogate sister over the past months. Sure, Christine could have written more often, but she was set to become a Vicomtesse! She would be a member of the aristocracy; she would have no time nor need for childhood friends from the theatre, of all places. Meg allowed herself to admit she was somewhat jealous; wasn't she pretty and talented? While Christine had always been sweet-natured, mystifyingly insightful, and quietly distant, she was far from beautiful. Meg bit her lip guiltily, returning her thoughts to the welfare of her dear friend. Raoul de Chagny had gone after them, led by her mother, but no one had seen or heard from he or Christine yet.
Meg had shed her frilly gypsy prostitute costume, and dressed in a young stagehand's castoffs of sturdy, neutral colours-fitted trousers, slightly-large riding boots, a blouse and a waistcoat, and bound up her golden curls in a snood. She clambered nimbly down the vast iron portcullis. She was the first of the mob to reach the strange and mysterious lair of the Phantom.
Maman had finally revealed some things to her about the man, for it turns out, he was nothing more than a man. Yet even her knowledge of Erik was limited. She knew not his origins, his surname, nor his distant history. Only that he dwelt here, a terribly disfigured genius, five stories beneath the surface of the earth, asking for a monthly salary and occasionally causing fantastical mischief. The latter, however, had tapered off soon after Christine settled into her position at the Opéra. Why hadn't Meg noticed that? How secretive Christine began to act? How her intrinsic despondency seemed ameliorated?
Useless, Meg thought to herself, gritting her teeth. All is clear in hindsight.
Freeing her tresses from the snood, the gracile ballerina walked carefully in her borrowed boots, gazing around in wonder before calling timidly, "Hello?"
There was no answer. Meg continued exploring warily before something familiar caught her eye. Among the objects, instruments, and furniture of a strange and hidden home, was a flash of silvery metal. Christine's unpleasant leg braces lay neglected on the ground near a massive black stone chair. And upon the seat lay a discarded white mask.
Meg hurried over and dropped to her knees. She slumped briefly; Christine wasn't fond of wearing them, but she wouldn't really go too far without them.
The blonde suddenly lifted her head in revelation. Christine wouldn't leave her braces unless she no longer needed them.
And that meant … the mask …
Meg gingerly picked it up, watching the light play on its polished surface. And she understood; these objects left behind weren't mere items … but cages that had trammelled two people in solitude and darkness.
Meg tipped her face up to prevent her tears from falling, and drew a long breath. She would miss Christine very much, but was content to know that she-and he-were finally free.
This story has been more than two years in the making. I can't believe it. I'm a bit sad to leave these characters and places, but I'm so glad that people have enjoyed this fic. I wanted to say thank you so much to all my readers; I seriously couldn't have finished without your support! I'd love to hear from you, now at the end of this long road! Merci!
