Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Slipping backstage unnoticed was easier than Christine had imagined; every single dancer was already pressing pink lips to long spouts of liquor bottles, and smoke rose from cigarettes in the air – a haze that she could get lost inside of. She hurried along toward a back corridor that led her into a void of silence, with only a flicker of distant sound from the backstage celebrations. She didn’t want any of the armfuls of flowers, nor the starry-eyed looks from the new managers; she only wished to speak with her Angel, and prayed within her mind that he had heard her voice rising from the stage mere minutes ago.

Downward, she plunged through hallways and stairs until she was at the doorway of the basement chapel. The only sounds were the trickling of water behind the walls, and the soft dragging of her crystalline dress train along the floor. She knelt at the small altar, crossing herself before she struck a match and lit a candle for the memory of her father. It was here, her father’s spirit might linger about, along with the angel that he’d sent to her…for her.

An Angel torn from God’s right hand.

“Tell me you heard, Angel,” she spoke gently, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped together in a position of prayer. She could finally breathe deeply, now that she was here. All that mattered was that he would appear to her once more, and praise her for all of the lessons she had so carefully followed upon her stage debut.

For tonight, there were stars embedded in her hair, and a flourish of red blush upon her cheeks. It was something that she never expected, to be chosen to sing once Carlotta had made a very public and preposterous exit. Her angel had been warning her of this day, though; she just never expected it to come this quickly, and with such pleasure, such power.  

“Angel, please tell me you’re here. Please tell me you heard!” She was breathless, a laugh almost forming in her throat; the first time in months that she’d even uttered so much as a giggle. She knelt down onto the cold cement, her skirts folding in around her like tufts of cloud from an evening sky. She began to hear footsteps that approached, a sound from behind the walls that was out of place – alerting her senses that something wasn’t quite right.

Christine gathered her skirts and rose at the sound, whirling around to ensure she hadn’t been followed. Strangely, the door to the chapel remained closed, just as she’d left it, but the footsteps still continued, growing louder by the second. She stared incredulously at the painted glass window on the far wall, moving toward it as quietly as she could. Surely it was a dream, hearing the footsteps of an angel! Surely, it was only in her mind…

A loud thud sent a fissure of shock through her, as two shadows of large sprawling hands appeared from inside the painted glass. Christine blinked, shaking her head, rubbing her eyes – but the palms still remained in place. “Angel…?” she whispered, stepping closer to the glass. “Is it you?”

“Christine,” a raspy, deep voice answered, “It’s me. I’m…I’m here.”

She cocked her head, placing a hand upon the painted glass over the right palm; her hand was so small in comparison, and she could feel heat from behind the glass.

“You’re…you’re out of breath,” she murmured curiously, pressing her ear to the cool surface. “Why are you…how are you…?”

“I…I…ran here,” the voice mused, seeming overconfident, and a tad bit arrogant. She slowly began to back away from the glass, frightened at the handprints that could not belong to an angel, but a man…a man with hands instead of mighty ivory wings.

“Wait. Christine, please wait. Let me explain,” the voice was slightly slurred, and Christine shook her head against the voice, refusing to believe that her angel would indulge in drinking as mortals did.

“You’re not him,” Christine said slowly, tasting the bitterness of the words on her tongue. She heard him breathing heavily, right there, through the shards of glittering glass…

And then, it happened. Icy reality collided into her, just as the handprints slid down the other side of the glass, leaving trails of sweat in their wake. She stood up tersely, looking around wildly – had someone come to play a trick upon her? One of Carlotta’s little henchmen?

“I’m…I’m not who I say I am. To you, I am an angel. I always wanted to be. But now, it’s…it’s impossible for me not to tell you. You can abandon me after this, and I promise I’ll never…never sing through the walls, or your mirror, or this painted window. But right now, I…I have to reveal myself. If I don’t I’ll…I’ll always wonder what you might have thought. Of me…” The voice was all-consuming, and it captivated her immediately – her heart opened up at the sound, but her mind spun a thousand different stories at once – it couldn’t be anybody else.

It was his voice, but different than before. A bit raspier, drier, and…desperate?

“Who…who are you?” Christine whispered, terrified at the voice and the handprints that matched…and what it would mean if they matched.

“If you’re no angel, then…what are you? A spirit? A stagehand playing with my head?”

“You know I’m no stagehand. You know my voice. Just…just promise me you won’t run. If I…if I reveal myself to you. Just this once, Christine. Please.”

He was pleading with her.

She took a deep breath, backing away from the painted window until her bare shoulders touched the cold stone of the opposing wall. “But I don’t understand, you…you can’t…you’re not…” She swallowed a lump in her throat. Her head screamed out for her to run. To find Madame Giry, to tell her that there was some backstage drunkard who was pretending to be her angel, her teacher, her closest friend. She knew that her angel would never be able to show himself – humans couldn’t be in the presence of godly creations anyways…so she decided that whoever it was behind the painted glass was not her angel…He couldn’t be. It was impossible.

But why didn’t she run now? Why did she wait for him, the slurred, ragged voice that seemed to be filled with pain?

“Come out, then,” she called out, splaying her hands against the wall behind her. “Let me see you.”

There was a shudder and a creak, and the painted window began to open like a doorway. A tall, shadowed figure stumbled out, and she covered her mouth with both hands, too shocked to even scream.

He tripped on the edge of the archway and sprawled across the cemented flooring, while Christine watched with widened eyes, her heart pounding in her ears. He slowly pulled himself up into a kneeling position, and it was then that she saw him – all of him, his chin lifted, his eyes glittering, his mouth agape. She could not move, or speak, or even think.

She could only breathe.

The man’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, gesturing grandly with his hands – a mockery of his entrance and his visage, she supposed. He wore a baggy white shirt with smudged dirt and mud smeared on the sleeves and stomach, half tucked into black leather trousers. His open shirt revealed dark chest hair, shining with sweat, and his eyes were blue…the color of ocean waves flowing through the back of her mind, and suddenly she could smell salt and sand in the air.

His hair was polished but tousled, black as the night, and he ran a hand over it in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it. “I know you’re…you’re frightened,” he managed, his eyes traversing her – and she held her arms against her chest as reality and dreaming collided once more.

“You’re not…no. You’re not him,” she whispered angrily, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. “You’re not! You can’t be. He’s from heaven, and you’re…you’re…”

“From hell?” he interceded, his mouth twisting into a smirk. Christine shook her head, charging forward with strength she did not know she possessed – and slapped him hard, across the left side of his face. He fell backwards a bit but steadied himself, adjusting his jaw as he looked up at her. “Hit me again, if it pleases you. Just don’t leave.”

“You! You’ve been the one behind the walls? You’ve been the one listening to every…every secret I’ve ever had? It’s been five years! Five years, and you…you took advantage of me! You lied to me! And you finally decide to, what, reveal yourself after I finally am able to sing – so you can gather some sort of credit, some sort of…” her voice broke as she turned from him, her skirts flowing behind her angrily, a maddening storm, a shattering of everything that she knew.

The man sighed noisily, rubbing a hand over the left side of his face. “Yes. Yes it’s been me. Fuck, hate me if you need to. That’s fine, hate me, Christine. I just…I just wanted you to know. I couldn’t keep it inside any longer. Don’t you realize that it killed me too? To pretend I was some sort of spirit from heaven? You’d never have trusted me if I just…just…walked through your mirror one night…you’d never have – ”

“You pretended to be an angel sent by my father!” she cried hysterically, covering her face with both hands. “My dead father! And you’re not…you’re just…you’re just…”

“Erik…if you want to know. My name is Erik. And in my defense…well, this is what kept me from being honest with you,” he motioned to the masked side of his face. “I know you’re angry, I…I just couldn’t lie to you any longer. I know you may never wish to speak with me again. I just…”

“Are you drunk? You reek of liquor! God!” Christine paced the floor, not knowing how to react to the flood of emotions that coursed through her. The man – Erik – nodded dully, his eyes suddenly filled with sadness.

“Yes, I am drunk. Very drunk,” he cocked his head to one side, watching Christine as she paced the floor. “Can you please sit down?”

“No, I’m not going to sit down! I’m not going to do anything you tell me to anymore! Five years! Five years you’ve lied to me! How can I ever trust you? How?”

Erik leaned back on his feet, sliding to the ground with legs extended. He propped his chin up on both hands, almost looking childlike for a moment. Christine scowled at him, looking across the room toward the door. “I should leave,” she responded miserably, but something within her knew she wouldn’t. Was it wrong to make him feel bad, now? For what he had done?

“I understand if you do,” he said in a low voice, hanging his head between his knees. “But I’ve been a good teacher, at least…haven’t I?”

Christine stopped pacing suddenly, and collapsed on her knees to the floor. She stared at him, hunched over, his hair falling in tendrils over his ears. “Where do you live? How do you move through the walls…how were you everywhere that I was?”

“There are tunnels beneath the Opera house, hundreds of them. That’s where I…well, that’s where I live. Giry, she…she brought me here, years ago. From a place that people don’t come back from. Let’s call it hell, shall we?” He smirked again, lifting his chin and tilting his head back, his eyes fluttering shut. Christine winced as she felt his pain, trying desperately to push away the feeling that she really knew him; she wanted to keep hating him, to be angry with him, but…the longer she sat near to him with the painted glass window wide open, the more she began to see and understand. He was a recluse. Perhaps spat out from society, from the whole world.

Just as she had been.

“Madame Giry?” Christine repeated blankly, and he nodded slowly. “She knows about you?”

“Yes. All of it. Every…single…bit of it. Funny, isn’t she? Letting this ruse continue. Passing my notes back and forth to the managers.” Erik let out a short bark of laughter, staring at her devilishly. “She’s been lying to you, too. Your precious stage-mother.”

“Why are you acting this way? You’re not like this! My angel isn’t some arrogant, egotistical, open-shirted drunk!” Christine spat, surprised at the venom in her own voice.

“You should be angry with her, Christine. She knows everything. Knows that I was pretending to be your angel. That I live down here…in fact, she’s the one who put me in this prison. I didn’t come here willingly,” he paused, pulling a flask from the inside of his shirt fabric. “Maybe you shouldn’t truly hate her, though…for without her, you’d have no angel,” he chuckled, drinking deeply from the silver flask. “And without me, you’d still be in those tight pointe shoes; silent, washed into the colors of the backdrops.”

Christine frowned, glaring at him. “Aren’t you drunk enough already? Give me that!” She leaned forward and snatched the flask from his hands, holding it idly for a moment. “What’s in here?” She suddenly wanted something, anything to dull her senses – maybe a sip of his liquor might make this less heartbreaking.

For her angel was gone. And a man had appeared in his holy, blameless stead.

A drunk man in a half-white mask.

She pressed her lips to the spout, choking down the bitter liquid, shivering as it burned the back of her throat. When Erik reached for it back, she pulled it away from him, clutching it to her side. “Don’t touch me,” she warned, and he shrank back from her, holding his hands – large and very calloused – up in the air.

“I mean you no harm,” he said quietly, his eyes pensive. “I never wanted to scare you, or…or to hurt you.”

“Well…you did. You’ve hurt me already and I’ve just learnt your name,” she replied coldly, taking another swig from his flask. “And now I’m drinking like a stagehand.” Christine shook her head, staring at the ground, then slowly, she began to stare back at him. His arrogance faded away with one spiteful glance from her, and he seemed to disappear into himself, his eyes once more full of raw, feral anguish…

And fear.

“I drank because I planned to come see you. I was nervous. Then I drank a bit more, and then…suddenly I’m stumbling through an underground river,” he sighed, his blue eyes searching her own before dropping to the stone floor. Christine sighed, her heart softening as his voice settled itself inside of her, just like it always had.

A lit candle glistening in the darkness. A candle that always showed her where to go, what to sing, how to feel…

“God,” she whispered, “It is you.” She took another drink, playing with a stray star-shaped pin nestled in her curls. “I just wish…I wish you hadn’t lied. I wish you would have told me. I would have understood. I know what it’s like to be alone.”

Erik placed a hand over his mask. “I wanted a chance to know you. And this…this covers something horrific. Something that I couldn’t risk you seeing. I was afraid you might see me…as a monster. Not a man.”

Christine eyed the mask, feeling a bit braver now with the heat of liquor curling inside of her stomach.

“Can I…can I see what’s under there?” she asked tentatively, scooting a bit closer to him, smoothing down the billows of her dress. Erik did not speak, but shook his head passively, his eyes squeezed shut.

“No. Please don’t ask that of me.”

“All right, I…I didn’t mean to pry,” she replied softly, emptying the contents of the flask down her throat; did she tremble at the sting of the liquor, or was it the scent of earth and musk that radiated from his open shirt, his exposed flesh…She could not place a feeling on what was swirling around inside of her. She felt…warm, and not as afraid, and…

A strange, melancholy sort of happiness.

Nothing else existed in this moment. A woman had just found out her angel was not from above, but from beside her, here, on earth. A man, although drunk, who had stumbled through underground rivers, shattering his no-contact promise with the outside world for her.

Could he be a good man, after all?

“You’re an orphan then, aren’t you? And your parents, are they…?”

“Dead, I believe,” Erik responded quietly. Her eyes wandered to his feet, where tightly laced boots, splattered in dried black sludge, covered halfway up his calves.

“But you don’t know for sure?” she asked, her eyes falling upon his chest for a moment. She had never seen a man with so much hair on his chest. It made her throat tight, and she forced her eyes to look away.

“Do you…do you go outside? You don’t look like a man who lives underground.”

“I do. I go many places,” Erik began to trace a finger in the dust on the floor. It looked like another language. “I go where I please, when it’s dark out.”

“Yes, but why do you stay down here? Why do you still do what Madame Giry says?”

“She does what I say,” Erik said tersely, pulling back to admire his artwork on the floor.

“What does that mean?” Christine slid closer to him, curious to finally have a glimpse into her angel – Erik’s – clever mind.

“It’s Aramaic,” Erik drew himself back on his knees, gesturing for her to see.

“Well, what does it mean?” she asked again, absentmindedly pulling a handful of pins from her hair. Curls began to fall down around her shoulders, and Erik looked away, prompting her to giggle slightly; from him or the alcohol, she did not know. She could not tell, anymore. Everything, even him, was blending into one, darkened picture with a lightning strike splitting it right down the middle. An electrified flash that might have caused a fire in a wide, green field…

If she were a field, then he, undoubtedly would be the fire. He would be the strike from the sky. Angel, or no angel.

And although the images inside of her mind were dark, they grew like vines, glittering with fireflies, with beasts of the night that hid themselves away. Out of fear or mistrust, perhaps.

But one thing was for sure; this land, this world of the night was so much better, so much richer than the world that she knew from above.

“I’m…I’m sorry for slapping you,” Christine blushed, admiring the swirls and cuts of the language she did not know written in the dirt in his handwriting. “I shouldn’t have, I was just…confused. Confused and angry with you. But now I know it’s not entirely your fault, although…I’d like to see. To see your home, where you live. If you’ll take me there, of course.”

Erik looked up at her with astonished eyes. “You want to…to go with me? Down there?” He pointed toward the painted glass doorway. Christine’s eyes glimmered with mischief, and a warmth pooled in her stomach. “Can I trust you?”

He stood up, stumbling only once, smearing the Aramaic dust with his foot.

“That’s one thing you should never, ever doubt, Christine,” he replied, his voice heavy and deep, cradling her, catching her as she fell back down to earth.

As he stepped through the threshold, he held out his hand to her. She was nervous, at first, to touch him, but found his hand to be warm, although rough and calloused. And he pulled her through, shutting the painted glass door and locking it from the other side, leaving the rest of the world behind as they tumbled down into darkness.

Chapter Text

Beyond the painted glass door was a narrow passageway with knee-deep waters, and Christine grimaced as she felt the mud and grime flood into her shoes. Her glittering, pale dress skirts were floating just above the murky surface, and she wondered if she would leave stardust in her wake; a trail that had no beginning and no end.

It was still as if she were dreaming.

Still a bit numb from the liquor, her inhibitions began to fade as they made it to the end of the passage, and once they passed through a great stone archway, the tunnel opened up into a huge space with a vaulted ceiling. Several doorways stood in front of them, but darkness obscured each one, and she prayed that Erik would produce some sort of light to guide her legs that were heavy – a battle against gravity and great, darkened waters.

Christine noticed several things about him as they stopped for a moment; his hand was increasingly gentle within hers, occasionally rubbing the tip of his thumb on the inside of her palm. She would have pulled away – perhaps in fear of what the sensation might mean to her – but he guided her so carefully through the water, so meticulously that she wondered how many times he’d waded through them, every morning and every night, just to be present behind the painted glass…to speak to her while she knelt by the altar.

For five consecutive years.

And he was never late, not even once.

“Erik, is this water going to get deeper? Because…well, it’s quite cold and my dress is very long…” she pulled on his hand, willing him to turn toward her. He smiled slightly, smoothing the edge of his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

“I have clothing in my home that you can change into, if you wish. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

Her eyebrows shot up, intrigued. “Why do you have clothing that a woman would wear? Have you ever…had any...visitors down here?”

Erik snorted, turning away from her as he shook his head. “Oh yes, Christine, all the time. All women, you see. I keep their dresses when they leave, naked.”

She would have stomped on his foot if she could reach it. “Oh, be serious! It was a serious question!”

“So you’re telling me…you honestly believe a woman would come down here willingly?”

Christine shrugged, pulling another pin from her hair with a free hand and tossing it into the water as they stood stagnant, in the midst of what seemed like the entrance to a labyrinth. “Well, I am…”

“Hmm. Well you’re…you’re different.”

“Different as in…there’s no other women that you…”

Erik twisted his head back to look at her, incredulously. “If you want a straight answer, then fine. No. There have been no other women.” He swore under his breath as he turned his head away, stumbling slightly. Christine frowned.

“I don’t think this water is good for you. It’s not clean, Erik.”

Erik released her hand and it fell to her side. “Tell that to your stage-mother, Emilie. Oh, yes, Emilie Giry...the woman who confined me to this hellhole.” He snickered, venturing forward, leaning down as if searching for something in the water. “I know I left it here...”

Christine began to feel cross. “How could she do that to you? Leave you down here?”

“Oh, it’s worse than that. She refused to speak to me after she put me down here. Only communicates with me through notes and letters,” he sighed, kneeling down so that the waters engulfed him to the waist, his hands still digging around beneath the surface.

Christine shook her head as she watched him. “But she...she took me in when my father died. Why would she be so cruel? Why would she...how could she even do such a thing?”

“Ah, here you are!” Erik announced proudly, standing up with a rusted chain gathered in both hands. Christine watched as water droplets trickled off of him, noticing the faint lines of muscle through the saturated fabric stuck against his torso. She forced herself to look away, feeling his piercing blue eyes fall upon her, studying her...

She prayed that he hadn’t noticed.

“Come along, we need to follow this chain. I docked the boat here, somewhere...although I can’t quite remember where...” he murmured, splashing ahead of her toward the entrance of the middle tunnel.

“Erik, wait! Can you please wait for me? It’s cold and dark, and...”

Erik whirled around, stumbling slightly. “It would be better if you stay put. I’ll come back with the boat.”

“You are not leaving me here! It’s frightening enough feeling as though I’m in some sort of underground tomb!” she cried, racing toward him through the water as fast as she could. She didn’t expect him to stop in his tracks, and when he did, she collided with his backside, grabbing fistfuls of his drenched shirt to steady herself. Her fingers accidently groped the tight muscles underneath, and her heart fluttered very close to the top of her throat; a tingling warmth that spread all the way down to her waterlogged feet.

Erik staggered, whirling around, still in her grasp. She could feel his breath hitch, and she slowly loosened her grip on his shirt, staring up at him curiously. “I...I...” she swallowed nervously. “I just don’t want to be standing here, in the middle of this...this...” her hands finally released his shirt fabric, and she stepped back, afraid of the warmth pooling in the midst of her belly.

“Graveyard? Land of the Dead?” Erik mumbled, turning away from her, pulling more and more of the rusted chain from below the surface of the water. Christine stood watching him, wavering, hoping she didn’t make him feel any worse for living in such conditions.

“I just don’t understand why Madame Giry would do this,” she countered against the fear in her chest, right near her heart. “Why would she condemn somebody, abandon somebody...?”

Erik continued down the middle passageway, and Christine stumbled recklessly after him.

“It’s because of my face, Christine...because of this,” he replied, his voice laced with bitterness. “And I believe she is afraid of me. She always has been. Aha! Here it is,” his shape blended in with the darkness of the tunnel, and Christine waited at the edge, clutching her arms to her chest.

“Afraid of you? Why?”

Erik appeared in the dim light, making his way back to her, the rusted chain hung over his left shoulder. He was pulling a narrow boat behind him, painted black with chipped and warped edges. He dropped the chain on the back of the boat, and it clattered loudly, startling Christine. Erik motioned to her with his hand, and she waded to him as quickly as she could.

“Let me lift you up,” he said gently, his eyes softening, his mouth curving into a small smile. She nodded, averting her eyes as he reached down and brought her up into his arms with ease.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

“You’re quite strong,” she said quietly, as he settled her into the front of the boat. He smiled broader as he climbed in behind her, pulling a long oar from where it had been nestled on the side of the boat.

“Well, you’re very light, so...” his voice drifted off as she heard the strike of a match, and a yellow, dream-like glow began to emit from behind her.

As Erik propelled the boat further, Christine wrung the water from her skirts, trying not to focus on the all-consuming darkness that they descended into.

“You never answered my question,” she said hesitantly, turning her body around toward the lamp, watching him guide the boat with an impressive simplicity. “Why would she be afraid of you?”

Erik sighed loudly, as if slightly irritated, and it echoed in the eerie silence of the tunnel. “If you must know, she saw me do something very...very violent. But it was necessary. My life was at stake.”

“Did you...kill someone?” she put a hand over her mouth, trying not to stare at his forearms that were now exposed – he’d rolled up his sleeves.

“I had to,” his voice was small, unsure, and childlike again, and he seemed to shrink into himself. Christine nodded numbly, trying to imagine what might have happened to force his hand...to make him do such a thing. “It can be forgiven, though. God forgives all. Even Judas.”

Erik laughed. “You think I’m like Judas?”

Christine narrowed her eyes at him. “I never said that! I just meant that the worst things possible can be forgiven...If you ask Him.”

“And why would an all-powerful God want anything to do with me? Hmm?”

Christine looked up at him; a moving statue made of water droplets and mighty stone, thrusting her through a river of darkness. He seemed calmer in the shadows, although he was still wavering to keep his balance – and she decided that he was still, undoubtedly drunk.

“God would never do the things that humans do,” she replied serenely, slipping her feet out of her drenched, pearl-colored shoes underneath the billows of her dress. “God didn’t put you down here, Erik. He wouldn’t abandon you like she did.”

“I don’t worry about God; in fact, I don’t think about Him at all,” Erik countered, seeming to be slightly bothered by her spiritual persistence.

“Yet you pretended to be an Angel for five years,” Christine chuckled, and she heard Erik let out a long sigh.

“Fine. I did some research...for instructive purposes only! I had to know why an Angel couldn’t appear before...before a human. So that you would believe I was from Heaven,” his voice was low and sad, and her heart leapt at how fast she could discern his emotions in near-total darkness.

“And you were so melancholy. So lonely. And so was I.”

“I was,” she nodded, staring down at her half-lit hands. She shivered from the cold, trying to focus on the timbre of his voice – a voice she knew so well, it was as if it came from the confines of her very spirit. It was strange, connecting the voice with a man; almost unsettling, for it made her body react in ways that were certainly made of sin.

There was a tiny light that began to appear in front of them, and Christine turned herself forward, relieved that they were nearing the end of the tunnel.

“But you never left me alone, like everyone else. You were always there. Erik...it meant – and still does – mean the world to me. That you refused to abandon me. Even if you lied. Even though you tried to be my angel. An angel that...that my father wanted me to believe in. Probably so that I wouldn’t feel so disconnected from the rest of the world once he died,” she paused, her eyes growing wider as the light became larger and nearer.

Her heart fluttered then, realizing the truth within her own words; she was still a little buzzed from the liquor, but she realized that she forgave him already for what he had done.

Not because of God, or Madame Giry’s cruelty; but because she cared for him.

He did, after all, know her better than anyone else. Even better than Meg.

The boat lost its momentum as she heard a deafening splash behind her. Christine rotated her body around, and saw that Erik had fallen backward into the water. She gasped, worried that he’d hit his head – or worse – and she crawled to the back of the boat right as his head broke through the surface. The waters were deep, now, and she stretched out her hand for him to take.

“Erik! What happened? Did you hurt yourself?” He ignored her outstretched hand and threw himself back into the boat, with eyes squinted shut, and trails of water flowing down the exposed skin and leather of the mask upon his face.

“Erik, are you all right?” She shook him by the shoulders, and he finally opened his eyes and looked at her, shaking his head, his black hair falling down the front of his forehead.

He was crying.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you upset, I only...oh, God!” Christine pulled up the billows of her dress, sliding her legs underneath her so that she was kneeling. She dried his face as best she could with the shimmering folds, leaving behind a light dust of glitter across the entirety of his face – mask and all. He covered his face with his hands.

“Christine, I...I’m sorry...I just never expected...I didn’t think you would...” he choked out, seeming to be holding back a sob.

“Shh, shh, no, it’s okay,” she said warmly, continuing to dry his chest and shoulders with her skirts. “You’re still drunk, you must have hit your head.”

They stayed there, for a few moments. He seemed as though he were in physical pain; his lips were in a tight line, and the dimple near the side of his mouth was quivering. Christine kept comforting him the only way she knew how – drying him with her dress that was made of starlight.

“You must be freezing. Are we close? Close to your home?” she asked him softly, smoothing a hand over the dripping tendrils of his hair. “Erik...?”

He dropped his head forward, running a hand over the mess of dark hair she had just touched. He breathed heavily, folding into himself before slowly looking back up at her. The whites of his eyes were red, and she couldn’t quite tell the difference between his tears and the water running down his face.

“You forgive me,” he managed, attempting to stand back up. “You forgive me? Fully?”

“Yes,” she answered firmly, falling back onto her backside, scooting toward the front of the boat. “I do.”

Erik let out a timid laugh, shaking his head as he picked the abandoned oar back up.

“Please excuse my...emotional demeanor,” his voice was still trembling. “I don’t get forgiven often. In fact, I don’t think anyone has ever forgiven me. We’re close, Christine. We’re almost home.”

She let out a small sigh of relief, and shielded her eyes from the oncoming light.

“You deserve to be forgiven, Erik. And you shouldn’t believe anything else. No matter what Madame Giry said or did. You deserve to be...” her voice broke as she realized what she might say.

Loved.

Could she say it out loud?

Would she say it?

Christine was more than relieved that the boat broke through the darkness of the tunnel at that very moment, and soon her eyes were wandering up inside of a massive, underground space, and they continued to sail closer toward a long, uneven shoreline. Light streamed upon them from almost every direction, and she found she had to shield her eyes against the brightness; it was like sailing straight into the sun.

They glided across the gigantic lake, where the muddied shoreline spread itself far and wide, and a slight hill led up toward higher ground. An immense, inky-black cathedral was built into the furthest wall of ebony rocks, with towers that connected to the ceiling so far up, she almost thought they were somewhere outside, in the night. Lights flickered warmly within arched windows, and the doorway to the cathedral was marked with a extensive velvet curtain; blood-red and bright, with a few tatters and rips along its lower edges.

The boat slid right up onto the shore, but Christine stayed seated, staring up at the Cathedral and all of its underground, brightly lit pantomime of daytime. She was filled with awe, and almost couldn’t believe that this had been underneath the opera house the entire time she’d called it home; it was as if he lived in a world that was separate from her own, a world that was not part of earth, made of rigid charcoal lines and candle-lit dreams.  

Christine finally turned and saw Erik near her left side, his arms folded across his chest, admiring her, searching her. She blushed, extending her hand for him to take, for him to run his thumb inside of, perhaps, once more...

Just once more.

“This is...oh Erik, it’s beautiful!” She cried, delighted as he helped her step out of the boat, the shadow of a smile flickering across his face. She caught a glance of the straightness of his teeth, the beauty of his smile that was only slightly obscured by the pale half-mask.

“Shall we go inside? You need to change out of those sopping clothes, and I...” he mused, leading her up the bank toward the arched doorway of the cathedral. “I need to change as well.”

Christine nodded excitedly as he pulled the velvet curtain aside, and they entered into his home, where a large staircase swirled upward, and the foyer was filled with long, waxen candles – all alight, creating tiny movements and shadows upon the stone walls. She stood motionless as he released her hand from his, staring up into all of the beauty and splendor that now surrounded her, wondering if perhaps this was heaven – his heaven – after all. 

Chapter Text

Oh, there was so much to see and feel, down in those depths.

And even though it was a perpetual night, and she had somewhat been afraid, in the past, of what came in the night; worry, nightmares, and loneliness – his mere presence began to chip away at her fear, at all the things that had been silently torturing her.

After all, he was, undoubtedly, the entity – and now the man, who knew her better than anyone. Perhaps he knew more about her than anyone ever had. Christine tried to focus on the path ahead, instead of thinking about what it meant for him to be, well, real. There was too much to take in for her to worry over it now, she decided. She would let her senses be lost in this world – his world, for a little while, and leave the questions for later, when she eventually was back above ground. For now, she would learn all she could about her angel.

His world was unlike any other. It was similar to him; made of stone, shadows, and candle-light; the sharp edges and charcoal lines of the structure softening as they made their way down a wide space of hallway. Rooms branched off of it like vines, and plush carpeting had been laid down, blurring the hardened lines of the stone with deep reds and dark greens. Gas lit sconces lined the entirety of the hallway, and as they walked further, Christine found herself shivering; the only thing that the lights could not do was warm her body that was soaked all the way down to her bones.

Erik seemed to sense this, directing her to a room that had another curtain drawn over it’s doorway. “You can wash up and change in here. There’s a bath, and a modest amount of clothing to choose from...I will say a lot of it are old costumes,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, scratching at the side of his neck. “A lot gets thrown away and forgotten about.”

Christine smiled at him, hurrying toward the doorway. She stopped mid-way through the arch, the curtain bunched up in her hands. “Where should I meet you when I’m...”

“Ah, yes, well...meet me in the parlor. It’s all the way at the end of the hall.” Erik nodded curtly to her, bowing his head, almost gallantly. “I’ll see you in a short while.”

“Yes, a short while. I’ll be quick, I promise!” She found herself giggling, elated that she could finally rip these filthy clothes from her skin. She closed the curtain behind her and gasped as she surveyed the room, her mouth falling open against the brilliance of the light fixtures that hung from long, golden chains...

The light fixtures were just like the star-shaped diamonds that the costume designers had pinned into her hair.

“Think of me,” she breathed, moving across the large space. There was artwork that covered the walls, but it was not like the paintings that were hung within the Opera House – they were altogether, infinitely stranger. They had no beginning, and no end, made of swirls and spits of color, fire and shadow, yet each one was unrelated to the other. Christine felt as though she stood upon a threshold of several doorways, all leading to alternate fantasies and thousands of dreams.

“A fantasy,” she whispered, pulling the ties from the back of her dress absentmindedly. “Let me live in you,” she murmured, stroking a finger down one that was filled with magenta and light purple; a field or a meadow of some kind. As the ties became looser, she shimmied out of her dress, disappointed that it was now ruined, yet something within her chest blocked all feelings from the real world – the other world, out. She would live in these precious moments with everything that she possessed here and only here...especially now that she was near to him...

Erik. Just Erik.

A shimmering bronze bathtub stood in the corner, with a circular curtain pulled halfway around it. Christine forced herself to look away from the paintings and the light fixtures, peeling off the rest of her undergarments. Naked, she stood near the edge of the bath, puzzled at the presence of two knobs and a spout that were connected to the wall. She reached out and twisted one, and with a distant clunk, water began to pour from the spout; steaming, clear, and bright.   

Her mouth curved curiously. She wondered if this mechanism was what rich people used, in their private townhomes that cost a fortune. But how could Erik possibly afford...

She swallowed. How did he have all of these wonderful, beautiful things in a place so distant from the real world? Christine decided she would ask him...and she hoped that he might offer her some wine. She was unsure if her nerves would be steady without it. She then scowled at herself, at her desire for alcohol as she slid into the tub, closing her eyes against the warmth of the water. “Everybody else drinks,” she murmured aloud, submerging herself as best she could as the spout still continued to fill the bath. “Meg drinks, Emilie drinks...wine, though. I should be fine with wine,” she stared up at the ceiling, still mesmerized by the light fixtures. “It’s your first time alone with him. It’s okay to be nervous,” she told herself quietly, hoping the cranking noise from the faucet was loud enough to drown out anything she said aloud. “Just a little bit more to calm the nerves. A slight bit more.”

Christine found a perfectly cut bar of white soap on a small little table next to the bath, along with something that looked like a hardened sponge. She lathered the soap into the sponge and began to scrub herself clean, wondering if Erik was doing the exact same thing.

She wondered, for a moment, what he would look like, in a bath. Would he lounge like a lazy king, or would he clean himself with urgency, desperate to dress and meet her in the parlor?

Christine shook her head. No reason to imagine him like that. No reason to wonder what a man even looked like, down there...

Her heart flipped inside of her chest, and she sighed, leaning her head back against the bronze ledge. “What am I even going to wear?”

Anxious about what might transpire in the parlor, she rubbed the rest of her body clean in a hurry, splashing out of the water with a slight stumble. She grabbed a soft, dark purple towel from a golden rack, and dried herself off while exploring the rest of the room. A wardrobe stood in the corner, made of swirling mahogany wood, and she opened its doors quickly to survey her options for clothing.

There were indeed old costumes that she had seen on stage hanging in the closet, but there were also clothes that she had never seen before – in styles that she’d never even witnessed anyone around her, or in Parisian society, wearing. There was a long, silken dress that was light pink, like roses with blushing heads rising in springtime. A line was cut beneath the breast line, edged with a long, smooth ribbon and bow. Christine pulled it from the rack, holding it up against herself as she walked toward a large, silver-framed mirror in the other corner.

“Oh yes, this will do,” she sighed, laying the dress upon a tufted ottoman. She searched the wardrobe for a chemise; there were a few that looked older and yellowed, but smelled clean. She pulled one over her head quickly, her soft curls tumbling down her shoulders and back, finally free from the star-shaped pins that had held them. She carefully slid into the pink dress, her heart ignited at the way it shaped her small waist, and flourished near the bottom of her feet. With the plush carpet beneath her, and her legs and toes having gained their feeling back, she decided not to wear any shoes. She’d missed – for so very long – being barefoot...

It made her feel free.

Pinching some color into her pale cheeks, and flipping her hair over the back of her shoulders, she nodded at her reflection in the mirror, determined not to look as nervous as she felt. Christine sighed, taking a deep breath before turning and heading across the room to the arched doorway.

Stepping into the hall, she immediately heard the faint sound of music, and she smiled breathlessly, smoothing the silk of the dress with her hands – shaking, just a little. She padded down the carpeted hallway until she reached its end, where a giant archway and the sound of music playing signified Erik’s presence in the parlor. Christine took another deep breath, wandering through the doorway, only to see Erik seated at a large ebony piano in the corner, clad from head to toe in all black.

“Erik?” She called out, nervous to approach him from behind. He lifted his hands from the keys, and turned on the bench to gaze at her, his mouth falling agape as she stepped nearer.

“I...I thought you might choose that one,” he murmured, his blue eyes warm yet piercing – almost looking right through her, into the spirit that rose and danced within her. Could he see that much of her? Could he see the placement of her diaphragm, the placement that he had instructed her about ever so carefully, the elongated neck, the openness in the jawline – all described by a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. And now...

He looked upon her as a man. A breathing, well-muscled, half-faced man.

Christine broke his eye contact and explored the rest of the room, looking for – yes! She padded across the burgundy carpet, making her way toward a large silver table with assorted bottles of liquor and wine. “Erik, do you mind if I...?”

Erik stood up immediately, striding across the large space with ease – had he sobered up, a bit, from his fall into the icy lake? His confidence seemed more palpable than before. She stepped away from the table, unsure of what to do or where to sit. He seemed to recognize her nonverbal stagnancy, and gestured toward two couches that were positioned perpendicular to a great stone fireplace.

“Please, sit down,” he said quietly, and she obeyed without a word, settling herself in the middle of a sea-blue couch. Christine smoothed down her dress again while she watched him turn, and she allowed her eyes to rake over the loose black shirt that he wore, and the dark trousers that were fastened with a few golden buttons. He had also changed into a different mask; it still covered the same length of his face, but it was metallic in color and in nature, gleaming in the star-shaped sconces that mirrored the other room, hanging delicately from chains attached to the ceiling.

“Would you like wine? It seemed as though you enjoyed my liquor...oh, shit....” Erik froze, tilting his head back toward the ceiling. “Shit. You left my flask in the chapel, didn’t you?”

“I...I...I think so,” Christine replied, worried that she had done something wrong. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I was just...surprised, and angry, and...”

“Hush, I’m not angry with you. I’m the one who brought it there,” he sighed, resuming his movements at the liquor table. “Would you like some wine? I have a red that’s a bit dry, but I think you might like it...” He uncorked a bottle and began to pour bloodred liquid inside of a crystalline glass. “No, it’s just that...Emilie is likely to have gone after you in the chapel, since you’ve been away for a good bit of time. And she’ll find the flask and know it’s mine.”

Christine scooted to the edge of her seat, craning to look at him as he moved. “What will happen? Will she be...mad, that you went in through the painted glass? Will she know where I am?”

“Furious, most likely. She’ll think I’d have kidnapped you,” he sighed noisily, striding across the room to hand Christine the glass. She drank from it almost immediately, careful not to spill even a single drop on the pink rose dress.

“What happens now? I can explain everything to her, Erik. She doesn’t get to make decisions for me, anymore. She’s not my mother,” Christine replied, irritated that Emilie would be angry with Erik for revealing himself. “And I’m glad you did it, that you came through that window. Or door. I’m happy, Erik. I’m happy that it’s you.”

Erik looked away, a bit of mist in his eyes. “I need to send her a note explaining myself...” he mumbled, forcing his eyes onto the bottle of bourbon that he poured for himself. “Otherwise she might...”

“No, no, no!” Christine cried, slamming her glass onto the wooden table positioned in the middle of the two couches. “I will write her a note. If you do it, she might think...” her voice drifted off when she caught sight of Erik’s saddened expression; his doe-like, lonely eyes.

Blue like the ocean, yet rising and falling between powerful and soft, just like the might and strength of distant waves. She could almost smell salt in the air, again.

“She might think that I forced you to come,” Erik muttered, nodding slowly. Christine hesitated, wanting to go to him, to comfort him – but she was afraid.

Afraid of how formidable this feeling inside of her was.

She snatched up the glass, downing the rest of her wine, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Bring me parchment and ink, and I will write it in my own hand. Then you can...how will you even deliver it, Erik...all the way down here?”

Erik smirked, crossing the room quickly with long strides. “I have my ways,” he replied before slipping out of the room. Christine curled her fingers into fists at her sides, looking longingly over at the near-full bottle of wine.

“A little more won’t hurt,” she murmured, rising to approach the liquor table. She filled her glass again, and made her way back to the sea-blue couch, waiting patiently for Erik to come back.

Erik returned to the parlor rather quickly, with parchment and ink gathered up in his arms. He approached her cautiously, cocking his head at her newly filled glass of wine. “Christine...” he began, and she interrupted him shortly.

“You can’t tell me not to drink when you spilled through the chapel window, near-blind drunk, Erik!” she scowled, although it didn’t last long – she found it was difficult to be cross when his eyes glittered with such...intensity.

Such care for her.

“I’m nervous, all right? I’m in your home, and I thought, merely hours ago that you were an angel living in my dreams. So drinking makes this a little less...painful. And a little bit easier to feel...to feel...” her voice faltered for a moment, and she crammed the glass of wine to her lips.

“Safe?” Erik asked, the same sadness ridden in his voice again. Christine swallowed her wine, shaking her head at him. “No, I do feel safe...if anything, seeing you stumble around like that made it...I don’t know, it sort of pulled me out of a dream. But now I find that...that this dream, the one where you’re real, is the one I want to live inside of. To be in.”

“I...I see,” Erik managed, his voice thick with emotion. “Here,” he said quietly, laying out a piece of parchment and an inkwell in front of her. “To write the note with.”

Christine leaned forward eagerly, powered by the swirl of warmth in her stomach from the wine. She felt the heat from his body as he stood over her, and she wanted to...

Touch him?

Feel him?

Would he be rough, like his hand had been? Or would he be smooth and soft in other areas, with tender parts that thickened around muscles...

She bit the inside of her mouth to stop her mind from its continuous wandering. She would think of such things later, when she was alone, perhaps...but certainly not in his presence.

Christine dipped the pen into the inkwell, and began to write, the scratch of metal upon parchment seeming to be the loudest sound in the room. “Erik, would you mind, perhaps playing some music, as I write?” she looked up at him fondly, and he licked his lips, nodding immediately.

“But of course.” He snatched up his glass, which was still half full, and downed it, making Christine giggle. He smiled crookedly, walking backwards to the piano, his eyes still on her. “Don’t be too cruel,” he warned, the corners of his mouth curving upwards.

“Oh, hush!” Christine waved her hand at him, and they both let out a small bit of laughter. The sound of their voices together almost startled Christine; his deep, gentle timbre mingled with her soft bright sound. It seemed to rise in the air like a spirit of smoke, a new entity that had never been formed before. He slid onto the piano seat, running his hands over his hair, thoughtful and still for a moment. He looked at her through curious, amazed eyes, and then –

He asked a question she hadn’t heard since her father had fallen ill, and was no longer able to play his violin.

“Would you like something somber, or something more...lighthearted?”

She sucked her breath in, softly.

“Play something slow, something that builds, and...yes,” she sighed, her heart feeling so full that she swore it might burst from the confines of her chest. “Maybe something that...that speaks of happiness. That sounds like joy.”

And so he began to play, and she closed her eyes, dropping the pen for only a moment, remembering the love of her father, while realizing that although Erik was no angel, he was just the right spirit that her father had prayed for.

Chapter Text

Writing the note to Emilie proved to be more difficult than Christine had thought it would be. As she addressed the letter, she felt her insides flame up like a fire stoked with an iron rod...even just writing the name Emilie made her sick; replacing the old, worn, familiar feelings of a mother-figure that had once been her stronghold. But this woman had stolen Erik from somewhere with the promise of rescue, and even possibly the notion of freedom...but instead she abandoned him to the bowels of the Opera, left alone to roam around stone catacombs and tomb-like structures...

It was as if she had condemned him to death. Or perhaps something even worse; madness, cursed forever to wander by himself in the dark...

Always on the outside looking in.

Who could live alone without the sun for as long as he had? Who could peel joy from the gloom of stone, who could make an underground lake glitter with starlight? What kind of human being could stand to be apart from the warmth of another, void of any touch or feeling...

When was the last time he had been touched; really touched?

Christine swallowed anxiously. It slowly began to dawn on her that she had been his only window to the outside world. Their lessons had almost, in a way, also been her savior; for she had been filled with the heaviness of grief for as far as she could remember.

As she began to swirl the ink into letters upon the parchment, she remembered Emilie Giry arriving at the house by the sea. She had been tight-lipped and covered from head to toe in all black, but there had always been a warmth behind the dark of her eyes. She had taken Christine from an empty house and brought her here, to the Opera House, beginning her training as a ballerina almost immediately. And Christine had been grateful for the distraction, but had truly never mourned the loss of her old home...she had been ripped away from it quickly and stealthily, with invisible, outstretched hands.

And her father. She could never quite get that heavy feeling of greying despair out of her heart. Perhaps, now that she thought upon it, it still lived within her, this monstrous cloud of regret. Perhaps she had just learned to survive with it inside of her, tangled and matted with her spirit; the two unable to be torn apart from the other.

She tried to let the soft tinkling of Erik’s playing soothe her. And Christine tried her hardest not to remember the moments where she could not sing in the chapel for him, no matter how hard she tried. The sadness was just too heavy, and words would not be able to find their form.

And on those days, he’d graciously let her rest.

Never pushing her past those feelings without care, never forcing her to make sounds other than the sobs and blackened, soot-infested cries. The candles would fizzle out, but somehow, he stayed there, on the other side of the painted window, listening. Just listening.

And then, guiltily, her mind flew to Raoul.

He hadn’t even seen her when he introduced himself to the company. He’d walked right by her without a single passing glance.

She sighed, setting the pen down only to pick up her cup of wine. Raoul was nothing more than a doll or a painted bear left in the attic. He belonged there – in the past. And even if she allowed herself to dream of him remembering her, what good would it bring? Of course, they had shared a few winters together, and even a couple of summers. But even the handsome, youthful face of Raoul could not bring back those days and nights. They were nights – if anything – that she would die to forget.

Just to ease the pain.

Christine took up the pen with a newfound confidence that might have come from a mouthful of dry red wine, and finished the last sentence of the letter. Underneath, she signed her full name, lining its curves with a strike of ink underneath. Puzzled, she sat and stared at the signature; it looked different than it ever had before. Why did she draw the strike?

Was she becoming more powerful?

Was her spirit screaming to be set free?

“Erik,” Christine called out, turning her body to look at him; his head was bowed over the keys, and he seemed to be lost within the melody that sailed around the room like wind, carrying flower petals and old bits of tree – it was perhaps born of spring...a renewal of some kind.

He lifted his fingers gracefully from the keys, slowly turning to face her. His eyes were misted over again, and he seemed hesitant to hold eye contact with her; another act that left her confused, but still drawn to him.

“Erik, I’ve finished. Now how are you going to send this to her when we’re all the way down here?” she felt a lightness in her tone as she spoke to him, sipping a bit more wine as he stood. Her heart fluttered as she watched him walk – he had such an interesting gait – she’d never seen a man with such a powerful stride who stepped with such purpose, with such strength, grace, and beauty. As he drew nearer to her, her breasts grew heavy beneath the silk, and she folded her arms across her chest, embarrassed at the arousal that her body was falling head-first into.

“I have a system, if you want to see it. It’s really quite simple,” Erik finally spoke, taking the folded-up letter from Christine’s outstretched hand. Christine raised her eyebrows, a smile curling upon her lips, her eyes sparkling with wonder. “A system? What sort of system?”

“Hmm, well, it’s hard to describe. Come, I’ll show it to you,” he seemed excited at the notion, so Christine sprang up from the couch, her cup of wine in hand, following Erik eagerly out the parlor door and into the hallway. She jogged slightly to keep up with him, and immediately he seemed to notice and slowed down his steps. She smiled, although he still focused on the space of hallway ahead, for he was always noticing little things that others seemed blind to.

“How long have you lived down here, alone?” she asked as Erik led her through another doorway; a room that had no carpet laid down, and looked like it was used as a storage room. There were paintings stacked against the walls, dusted over, and a few old armchairs from productions in the past. A small, poorly sewn monkey with two cymbals attached to its hands sat in one of the chairs, looking sad and worn by time. Before she could go to it, Erik flipped a blanket over the front of the chair, covering the monkey and sending a swirl of dust up from the floor.

“Was that...was that yours?” Christine asked quietly, her eyes fixed on the back of his head. His hand hovered near the covered monkey, and for a moment, she thought he might be angry with her. A couple seconds of silence passed between them before Erik sighed deeply, turning his head so that she could only see the metallic mask.

“Yes...many years ago. I made it,” his voice seemed small and childlike, again...laced with sorrow and...fear? “I’ve kept it all this time...once, it was my only friend. The only bit of peace that I could maintain in...in the place that I lived.” His body was frozen, as if he wanted to touch the monkey once more, and Christine reached out without thinking, grasping him tenderly by the wrist. He whirled towards her with such sharpness that she winced, but still held her grip steady, and he gazed down at her, his blue eyes staring with such intensity, she thought she might wither away into dust. But it was not bad, the look within his eye. It was...

New. And strange.

Unfamiliar yet still familiar.

She thought she could smell the sea.

They stayed there for a moment, and time was nothing but a decoration, a man-made conversation that didn’t actually exist. Somehow, together – touching – her hand upon his wrist, they’d birthed a spark in total darkness, so bright that even the stone could not keep it, nor hold it in the palms of its darkened, prison-like hands.

Christine was breathing the very air that he breathed, they were so close. And yet...

She knew he would pull away. And when he did, she slowly released her fingers from his wrist – surprised at how warm his skin felt upon her own.

“I’m sorry, I...” she began, but he shook his head, averting his eyes.

“It’s a wound within me that has not yet healed,” he murmured. “Some days I want to look at it. Other days, I...I find myself disgusted by it. It’s a reminder of the people that were around me. The way they treated me. It was...” he swallowed, turning away from her, walking towards a peculiar mechanism that stood in the middle of the room. “I suppose at the time, I considered it normal. My face was just something that couldn’t be fixed. Not with my voice, or my mind, or things that I made, fascinating things, Christine! Everything that poured out of me was beautiful. Everything except what this mask covers.” His voice had turned grim, and his shoulders hunched forward. Christine wanted to go to him again, but she forced her lips to swallow more wine, instead – she could not go to him twice, surely it would be considered rude?

“Erik, what if...what if you showed me? What if those people were really bad people, and...and what you’ve been afraid of really isn’t as bad as you think? Would it be too horrible for you to show me?”

Erik didn’t respond. He reached up and grasped two ropes that hung from the ceiling – in fact, they were hung not from, but through the ceiling – there had been a hole somehow carved into the stone like an underground well. He pulled one of the ropes downward in a repetitive fashion, and a small wooden bucked inched its way downward through the ceiling. Erik let go of the rope once the bucket was about even with Christine’s waistline, and then stepped back, gesturing toward the bucket, leaving Christine more than confused.

“So do I place it...in here?” she asked incredulously, her cheeks burning with the unanswered question that still hung heavy in the air...the one he had ignored. Erik nodded, stepping back, allowing her space to place the folded letter inside of the bucket. She surveyed the interior and saw it was lined with velvet, and sighed blissfully at his constant attention to detail. She dropped the letter into the bucket, stepping back proudly, looking up at Erik for the next step. “Now how does it reach Emilie?”

“Easy. I used a tool to make a hole in the basement floor. Then, really, the rest was just lining stone in the catacombs with chalk, marking where the next hole would be. It took me quite a while, but I had to figure out some way to install a pulley system, as Emilie no longer wished to come down here...” his voice faded off as he worked to move the bucket up through the ceiling by handling the other strands of rope.

“She used to visit me, at first. But then...” he sighed, continuing to pull upon the rope even though the bucket had disappeared. “She told me she couldn’t stand it down here. So, I told her I’d write letters, and would see her one last time to tell her where to receive them. That was...oh, years ago,” Erik let out a long bit of breath, and Christine watched, fascinating by the veins in his forearms that seemed to pop out from his skin as he worked. She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing another mouthful of wine.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that she left you down here all alone. But don’t worry, I’ve told her I’m done with her. Done with her as my mother-figure...or as my guide. She’s nothing but an old woman who abandons people. Who abandoned you,” Christine announced, pride swelling within her chest as Erik glanced at her over his shoulder, a shimmer in his eyes.

“That wasn’t necessary, Christine. I didn’t ask you to – ”

“I don’t care that you didn’t ask! You never seem to ask for anything, Erik! You deserve to ask for something! Something that you want. All people are entitled to it, why should it stop at you? Why should you keep hiding?” she cried, indignant for the sudden rush inside of her chest to defend his humanity.

“You aren’t some monster that deserves to live in the shadows. You’re a man! You need to see the sun. You deserve to see the sun!” Her voice echoed against the cold stone walls and the carpet-less floor. She could no longer feel her toes, the chill was so great – but she didn’t care. Not when she was filled with a fire to warm him, to accept him, to see him...

Truly see him.

“Show me!” She cried, advancing on him, her hands on her hips, the wine cup falling to the floor with a great clatter. “Show me what keeps you from going up there! Whatever it is, I’ll defend you. I’ll defend anything that – ”

“No.” Erik’s eyes darkened, and he backed away from her slowly, shaking his head. “No, Christine.”

“What are you so afraid of? You think I won’t find you handsome? You think I won’t care for you? I’ve cared for you since the day you rescued me in the chapel. I wanted to die, that day! I was thinking about how I was going to do it! Don’t you realize how you’ve changed me? That I would be dead if you’d never pretended to be my angel? That we would have never – ”

“Do not use your heart as a weapon against me!” Erik bellowed, thrashing his arms across his chest, slamming them into the stone wall behind him. “Do not force me to reveal what I choose to hide! You once accepted me as just a voice...and now you must accept me with half a face. If you don’t, I’ll...” his voice cracked, and he turned his head away from her. Christine fell back, retracing her past steps, cursing herself for the wine that now morphed her reality and was to blame for her newly discovered confidence.

“Erik, I...” she whispered, terrified of what he would say next. Would he cast her out? Bring her back up to the surface and lock the painted glass behind him?

Would he disappear because she had pushed him into a corner?

She suddenly wanted to cry. “Erik...” she whispered again, but did not make a move to go nearer to him. Christine hung her head and tears began to stream down her face, and she covered her mouth with a cold hand to stifle her sobs.

“Oh God, I’ve just ruined it, haven’t I? I’ve pushed you too far. Forgive me, please...or be angry with me, if you must. I’ll never...never ask about it again. I’ll accept you as you are. Please, angel, Erik...please don’t abandon me.”

He was breathing heavily from what she could hear, and she watched him as he pushed off of the wall, stalking toward where she stood. She stared up at him, snot running down her chin, her eye makeup dribbling in rivers from the corners of her eyes. He reached out slowly and lifted a finger under her chin, turning it up slightly so that her neck was exposed. She breathed a rattled sigh when she finally looked into his eyes.

He was no longer angry.

“I would never abandon you,” he said softly. “No matter what. Not even if you ripped this mask from my face, right now. But here, touch me,” he stroked a finger along her jawline, taking her other hand in his. He pressed her pale fingers against the un-masked side of his face – only for a moment – before pushing her hand away, gently.

“This is me. This is what’s real. The other side is not human. It’s not...not who I am, at least not anymore. And down here I can choose, Christine. I can wear my mask without scrutiny, or questions, or demands...such as yours,” he simpered, his lips almost twisting into a cruel smile.

“I choose not to live in the sun, now. I choose to be apart from humanity. People are wicked, and I find that I am much happier...well, perhaps not happy. But I am free, down here. Uncaged. Allowed to go and come as I please.”

Christine stared up at him, lost in his eyes – an ocean that she now found herself engulfed by.

Something moved inside of her; something that had been still for a long, long while.

“Spirit of my spirit,” she breathed, reaching out to take his hand. He allowed her to with caution, but she did not slip her hand into his; instead, she opened his fingers like a lotus flower and kissed the inside of his palm as gently as she could. Christine raised her head back up to look at him, and she smiled upon him, relieved that his anger had passed, and her shame with it.

“I suppose we’ve both forgiven each other for different things now, haven’t we?” she said through a smile, releasing his hand from her own, immediately missing his warmth. Her lips burned and tingled with the kiss that she had given so freely, and her stomach flipped inside of her, amazed at her own bravery, although her knees felt suddenly weak.

“I should take you back, now, Christine,” Erik’s voice was tender, a rumble from deep inside of his chest. “You’ve had quite a bit of wine, and you should enjoy the fruits of your new dressing room...and finally sleep in a full-size bed, not those cots that they give to the ballet rats.”

“Hey! I was one of those ‘ballet rats”,” she scowled, but the frown only lasted for a moment, as she saw the corners of his mouth turn upward.

“There’s a big bed?” she pondered, now feeling a bit weary from the cold and from the amount of wine that she’d consumed.

“Mmm-hmm. And you need to be resting in it. You are the Prima-Donna, now, after all.”

“Oh, Erik...Prima-Donna. I can’t believe it. But isn’t it such a long way back to the chapel? Across the lake and into the tunnels?”

Erik smirked mischievously, running a hand over a few stray tendrils of black hair. “A while ago I discovered a passageway that leads right up to that specific room, believe it or not. Through the mirror...of course, I only used it every now and then to trick the old bird, Carlotta...nasty woman, she was. Wicked, even. Everyone is relieved you’ve taken her place. And I plan to keep you there.”

“So...does this mean I can see you more often? Since the mirror has a passageway?” She cocked her head at him, covering a yawn that was too strong to swallow down. Erik smiled at the gesture, and she waved a hand at him, “Oh, you!”

“Yes, I...” he hesitated, looking thoughtfully into her eyes. “I suppose you can, more easily, yes. But I will lock it behind me so that no one will find it. No one must find it...or they might find me. And I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“I know you don’t want to hurt anybody,” she murmured, padding toward the archway with feet as numb as ice. “You have a heart, Erik. I can see it leaking out of you. The way you...you act around me. You’re sweet and kind,” she turned in the doorway to look back at him, and he was already staring at her, a look within the blue of his eyes that made her stomach flip again, yet she could not name the feeling.

“Lead me to the passageway,” she whispered, “my feet are almost frozen.” Erik nodded; he was no longer the drunken man who she had slapped, or even the voice inside of the walls. He was altogether unlike anyone she had ever met, and she let him take her by the hand and lead her down the hallway and up a flight of stone stairs. A long, lonely corridor stretched out before them, with chandeliers on the walls that were covered in dust and mildew.

When they finally reached the end of the hall, Christine was ready to fall into her new bed, and she leaned on Erik a slight bit, pressing her chin into his shoulder. She heard him push something mechanical – something hidden – and with a series of clicks and shudders, he slid the door in front of them open. A wide array of peonies, roses, and lilies were crowded onto the vanity and the nearby tables, and an oil lamp was already lit by the bedside, the flame inside casting their shadows upon the walls; one very large, and one very small.

Christine walked through the mirror-doorway and turned back to look at Erik, once more. He leaned against the doorway, his face half-darkened by the glittering metallic mask, his eyes falling deeply into hers.

Dark, warm, and bright.

“How will I know...when can I see you again?” she murmured sleepily, sitting upon the edge of the bed.

“Slip a note underneath the door with the time, and I will meet you here, at this threshold.” He paused, kneading his hands behind his back. “Go to sleep, sweet Christine,” he whispered, and she nodded, crawling with relief under the covers, wiggling her toes further into the quilt, watching with half-closed eyes as he slid the door shut.

“Spirit of my spirit,” he whispered once the door was locked, and he turned down the passageway, slowly pulling the mask from his face.

“Perhaps I can show you, someday...” he whispered, turning the mask over and over in his hands. Erik then joined the shadows, his eyes seeing the way in the darkness, for his spirit was lit by a dancing flame that could never be put out nor dimmed.

He felt a shudder in his chest and knew, at that moment, the hardening of his heart, after so many weary years had been softened; his palm still burned from the kiss she had given him, willingly. A kiss he would dream about every waking moment, until they were together, once more.

You have a heart, Erik. I can see it leaking out of you.

He imagined there, in the darkness of the passageway, that his heart had opened up like the face of a red rose. He dreamt in his mind that it’s fullness would spill over like red wine in a glass, so fierce and vermillion that it left a trail behind him, staining both stone and water all the way back to his home.

Chapter Text

The ballerina prayed that God might give her a pair of magnificent wings as she fled, for there was murder hanging in the air, mingled with smoke and the soiled skin of the boy she’d rescued from a cage. Screaming filled the distance, and her heart pounded to an uncontrollable measure as she contemplated the concept of salvation.

Who could be saved? And were there some, undoubtedly, that could not be saved?

They called him the Devil’s Child; nameless, until she’d asked him through the metal bars. A part of her needed to know that he was human, and that the murder he’d committed was salvageable in God’s eyes – but what did she know? She was merely sixteen. A girl with no father and no mother. An orphan that belonged to the Opera Populaire. A ballerina that had now set things into motion that could not be undone, like a rose that had been clipped from its roots.

It would eventually wilt and die.

The two of them finally found solace in a back alleyway, as far as she could drag him from the circus grounds. The ballerina knew of a grate that would lead underground – she’d heard one of the stagehands talking about it. He’d spilled the secret over some brandy backstage, describing it as a desolate place; cold and unruly, where nothing living belonged or could grow.

Why did she now have doubt in her heart if she was so compelled to open his cage door? Did she fear that he might do it again – take a life – and that very blood would be on her hands? Simply because she’d pulled him from the bloodied straw of his cage floor?

“Erik, listen to me; you’ll be safe down here. I think there’s a pathway leading to somewhere dry. Find it, and I will find my way back to you,” she whispered, pulling the grate door open with all of her might; she grimaced at the irony of pulling him from one cage, only to shove him into another. Erik, the little boy nodded, clutching the ragged toy monkey to his bare chest.

“Wait,” he cried, whirling around, halfway inside of the tunnel. “Can I...can I show you my face? Just so I know that...that you won’t abandon me. Please...please don’t abandon me.”

The ballerina found herself afraid, but she closed her eyes and knelt before him, kneading her fingers together in prayer. “Show me.”

Erik slowly pulled the burlap sack off of his head, and she looked upon his full visage, unfazed by the ruined half of his face. It was red, swollen, and torn up – it looked as though he’d received lashings to the face, making the deformity even more gruesome than it probably originally had been. “You poor thing,” she breathed, reaching out a hand to brush him on the damaged side of his face. He did not recoil, but instead closed his eyes against her touch. His skin was hot, inflamed, and clearly irritated by the bag he had been made to wear, and the ballerina smiled, feeling white wings begin to sprout from between her shoulder blades.

She was his angel. God had intended it to be so.

“I will not abandon you. I promise,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “I will make sure nobody ever hurts you ever again, Erik. Now go. Go down as far as you can. I will find you and bring some food, and see if I can gather up some clothing. Don’t fret, everything is going to be all right.”

The little boy nodded, his blue eyes seeming so out of place from within his deformity, but they shone with joy, nonetheless. He was happy with her, she thought.

She had made him happy.

Her wings grew larger as he climbed inside of the grate, and she shut the door, watching him disappear into the darkness. White feathers began to swirl around her, and she stood up from the damp ground, staring out into the midnight sky. Stars from the heavens fell down and crowned her head, and she retraced her steps back toward the main road, her wings now so large that they dragged their white ends behind her, leaving a path of stardust in their wake.

And only those who belonged to God could see.

....

Clutching the empty silver flask against her chest, Emilie Giry hurried down a flight of stone stairs, the popping of corks and celebratory sounds of the managers and cast members fading as she fled. Three flights of stairs led her further underground toward the basement, and the smell of rat urine and mildewed stone curled around her like cold, unwanted fingers pulling against her spirit; even her own body rejected the notion of going closer to the domain that was not controlled by humans, but a snarling beast of her own making.

She winced against the stale air that pushed into the skin of her neck like a noose, yet she did not slow her footsteps. Her dark skirts billowed behind her as she descended with haste, regret and shame gnawing on the secret pieces of her heart that had made a promise; shards of muscle and sinew that she’d tried so very hard to hide away.

When the regret became too heavy to bear, she’d relied on the emptiness of her flat, where the oil lamps cast shadows of the past onto her walls, and she would dive head-first into a bottle of wine, drinking fast to numb the guilt of her rebellion against God.

Her heart seized in her chest even now as she remembered her promise to him. And how eager he had been to have a friend.

And how she’d become afraid of him as he grew.

And how her white savior’s wings had shattered like glass.

Now, he only haunted her with his letters; his swirling, black cursive that seemed too perfect to be penned by hand; perhaps he had traced every single letter to ensure some sort of lavishness, something that could only blossom from the fingers of a wealthy Parisian. Perhaps he wished to convince herself and the managers that he had grown into a mature and confident man, very much capable of fitting into society, of finding his place among those who were allowed to reserve tables in restaurants; those who would take morning strolls out in the sun...those who were not afraid of the light.

But she knew better.

He could not be saved.

Because she’d already destroyed him.

Emilie’s heart thundered wildly as she finally made it to the basement, weaving along the pathway she had cleared for herself so many years ago. Old furniture and racks of costumes sat untouched and covered in dust, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, willing the ghosts of the past and the tinge of mold in the air to leave her alone – she was mortal, she was a living being! Not someone who belonged underground. Someone who needed the light, although her skin was pale, and she did not normally enjoy strolling the streets in the bright light of the sun.

Evening had always been her favorite time of day. It was one of the things she’d shared with the little boy.

The gangly boy that was now a man.

If she was completely honest with herself, she was more similar to Erik than he knew of, but she could never somehow bring herself to tell him this. Emilie had barely been sixteen when she’d held him by the hand and locked him inside of the grate leading to the catacombs. And they were friends, for a little while. Friends until she began to despise the darkness of the underground, friends until he grew large and strong, and began to threaten her.

But the threats were never evil, nor made of blackness or sin. He merely wished for her to bring him outside and into the light of the sun – and he continuously asked questions she did not have the answers to.

“What does it feel like to be touched? I mean really touched, Emilie? My mother never touched me. She said that I was made of sin.”

Emilie had been his new mother. She had taken over the role that God had placed inside of her heart, along with a crown of stars and two white wings. Why had she traded such precious gifts from above with fear? Why couldn’t she have been more brave, why couldn’t she have claimed him as her son?

And now, she wore a crown of thorns that caused her temples to bleed, and only clad herself in black, for secretly, Emilie lived each and every day quite miserably, knowing that he was down there, alone, in the dark.

Without the light of the stars or the sun.

And then came Christine, another orphan she’d rescued, filled with the sadness of a thousand faces. Truthfully, she’d only taken in the orphan to ease the weight of shame on her soul. That perhaps she could redeem herself in the eyes of God.

But Emilie soon learned that her redemption would come in a twisted, haunting wave – a voice began to speak to Christine when she was alone. A voice that claimed to be an angel.

Erik now wore the crown of stars upon his head; Erik now possessed the massive ivory wings that had been Emilie’s. Stolen rightfully, but stolen nonetheless.

And the flask she’d found in the chapel, along with Christine’s unknown whereabouts led her to believe that Erik had done the unthinkable; he had revealed himself to her.

Emilie felt sick. She wondered what she could possibly do if Erik had indeed lured Christine down into his home. Of course, Emilie knew the way, but she could only go as far as the water’s edge. And she knew that if Erik was at his cathedral with Christine, the boat would be gone, along with any path that would lead to where they were. The entirety of it was overwhelming. She whispered a prayer out into the darkness, crossing herself as she entered the room with the velvet lined bucket attached to several pulleys; her chosen way of communicating with him. To her surprise, the bucket was hanging in the air, signaling that it held a message from him, and she reached a trembling hand inside of the velvet lining, grasping a crisp, white envelope.

She would normally conceal envelopes written by him until she was back inside of her modest flat with a full bottle of wine, but this could not wait. Emilie tore the envelope open, shocked as her eyes fell upon handwriting that was...

“Christine,” she whispered.

Emilie,

I trusted you. You were my mother for a time. But I did not know you had such a dark secret. A living, breathing, mortal secret. A child you hid in the bowels of the Opera House. When he speaks of you, he is sad. You saved him and then you condemned him. The flask that you probably found – yes, it was his, but I chose to go with him through the painted glass door. I chose to trust him because he was honest with me.

Something that you could never seem to do.

Why didn’t you tell me about him when I spoke of the Angel of Music? You knew it was him, and yet you did nothing, when you could have told me the truth.

How long have you left him alone? What kind of human being is even capable of what you’ve done?

You’ve been lying to me for as long as I’ve known you. And now?

I choose honesty. I choose his loneliness. I choose to bring him some light from the surface.

Do not come to me to speak. I will not listen, nor will I need you again in my life.

I choose truth. I choose light.

I choose him.

Christine.

Emilie clasped a hand to her lips, forcing herself to swallow the bile that had crawled up her throat and into her mouth. She held it as long as she could, then retched onto the stone floor, clutching the letter to her chest until her stomach was emptied.

Hot tears slipped out from the corners of her eyes.

And she collapsed onto the floor, in the near-blinding darkness, with scarring upon her back from where white wings used to be, and the crown of thorns grew tighter around her hairline, dripping blood into her eyes so that she could not see.

She cried for the little boy that she’d failed to save out of fear.

For what was the fear made of, now? It had manifested into a disease that plagued her body and her spirit, and she suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to drink herself to death.

Death. Would a death – could a death atone for her sins?

A sacrifice?

And would she be brave enough to go through with it?

Emilie shook her head slowly, biting the inside of her cheek. She could not face him, for that meant she’d have to face herself and all of her mistakes.

A life for a life.

She looked around wildly in the darkness, weeping, wondering.

Could she do it? End all of her misery here and now?

Her fingers drew a coiled rope from underneath a dusted armchair. Her eyes wandered up to the ceiling, catching a glimpse of the pulleys attached to the bucket.

With shaking hands, she formed a knotted loop – a noose, pulling a chair over so that she could reach the pulleys attached to the ceiling.

One more knot and the noose hung like a serpent, calling out her name in the darkness.

She found that suddenly, she could not wait to die.

She’d been waiting since the moment she abandoned him.

The moment her wings had died upon her back.

The coarse collar of the noose pulled at her skin – alive and snake-like, a serpent once more. She remembered Judas and his betrayal, and wondered if those who took their own lives could end up in heaven, after all.

She continued to weep. A life for a life.

Kicking the chair out from underneath her, the rope instantly tightened around her neck, and she reached out wildly, afraid of the darkness, afraid of the cold, of the absence of God within her last moments. She could only see one thing – a punishment...

A waking dream of that little boy with the toy monkey.

I trust you. I even think...Emilie, what is love?

The rope bit harder, so hard she could no longer cry or breathe. Lord, where are you? Holy Father, don’t abandon me...

A loud crash sent Emilie spiraling back down to earth, her limbs twisting and clattering upon the stone floor. She lay in a pile of her darkened skirts, ripping the noose from her neck, gasping for breath as if she’d been drowning.

She finally brought her eyes up to the ceiling, and saw that the pulleys had snapped underneath their rust and her full weight.

She began to weep, holding her hands protectively against her neck, where a burn mark – a brand now circling her flesh, red and inflamed, just below her jawline.

“Now I have something to hide from the world, Erik,” she whispered, pulling her collar up as far as she could. Emilie stood up slowly, her mind spinning with the events that she had forced into motion.

God had spared her. And Erik, with his simple neglect of oiling the pulleys, had caused rust to form, therefore shattering the doorway that might’ve led her to Hell.

“I’ll make everything right,” Emilie murmured, kicking the noose aside with her boot. “I promise, little Erik. Because I love you. I always have.”

As she made her way to the stone stairs, the crown of thorns loosed itself from her head, falling behind her soundlessly, left in the dark to fade into dust.

And there was hope within her flesh – although she did not know it...the celestial seed that had been sewn into the scarring between her shoulder blades, the places where she once had wings...

And tiny bits of feather began to grow again.