Chapter Text
“She’s quite good, isn’t she?”
Erik shot from his chair and into the shadows. A man lounged on a velvet-cushioned chair at the back of the box, his feet propped on a second. He flashed a blindingly white grin as he looked out at the stage, his fingers casually interlaced behind his head.
How dare he? The garotte slid into Erik’s hand as he slipped behind the intruder. With a flick of his wrist, it whipped around the man’s neck and pulled tight.
The body vanished from under his hands and reappeared on the next chair, legs still crossed. Erik spun to keep from falling forwards.
The man dusted off his knee and shook his head. “Now, that was uncalled for. Here I was thinking I could have a civil conversation with the opera ghost.”
With the opera ghost? The audacity! Erik slid into the shadows at the back of the box, his eyes not once leaving the intruder. “Who are you to sit in my box?” he hissed. “Or have you come to gawk?”
“Why, of course! Aren’t all of us here to gawk?” He nodded towards Christine on the stage and raised his hands. “And what a lovely thing to gawk at.”
As though she had heard, Christine’s voice soared higher and higher, the notes effortless after all their lessons. But she did not sing to be gawked at. She sang for her art, for the beauty of the emotion welling within her breast.
“Who are you?” Erik repeated, his voice now sliding across the box to growl at the stranger’s shoulder.
He learned forward, and the curtains, the rugs, and the velvet cushions were wreathed with flames. The heat of it flashed across Erik’s face, and he stepped back. But there was no clever trick, no expertly concealed mechanism through which the fire had been summoned. It simply was.
And then it was gone.
The stranger grinned, an uncanny glow still lighting his face. “A friend, I believe. You placed her in this role, intend to make her prima donna, yes?”
A friend... Doubtful. If such tricks were child’s play, there could be no trust. But an ally, perhaps... “The role belongs to her. The previous prima donna was...lacking.”
“Oh, certainly so. But all these men…” He glanced at the other boxes, then the seats below. “Do they want the music or do they want her?” His voice lowered, a strange glint in his eye. “And you…what do you want?”
“The music. I wish her to sing. She knows the emotion of the music unlike any other.”
“Any other? Not yourself as well?” He glanced down at her again. “Why are you not there beside her?”
Heat flashed through Erik, setting his fingers twitching. “Why, indeed,” he hissed with a sneer and stepped back further into the shadows. “Some of us are not destined for the limelight.” His voice sing-songed around the box. “Some of us are far more suited to haunting the shadows.”
The stranger rose and appeared in front of him in the blink of an eye. He reached up and brushed his fingers over Erik’s masked cheek. “As you say.”
Before Erik could flinch, the stranger disappeared. Erik stumbled back, his eyes darting across the box, his hand raised to block what was no longer there. It was too risky to remain here tonight. With one last glance towards the stage, he slipped into his passage and vanished between the walls.
He had a student to congratulate.
The mirror, the passageway, the lake, the utter madness that seized him and even brought Christine down with him. Perhaps it had been the stranger’s words that had made him so bold, or perhaps that insufferable boy. The need to share his music with her had grown so fierce. And she had listened! She had let him guide her, show her, teach her properly for the first time.
A tremor in his hand shook his quill. He steadied himself and resumed scratching at the paper. He had returned to composing the moment he was able, new melodies scorching his fingertips as he branded them into the organ’s keys and stops. The colours blossomed out in soft greens and golds, fading into a shimmering violet—almost like the sky at twilight. That delicate moment when the stars first came out. The note drew out, thin and high, and he leaned into it, his eyes sliding shut. Fingers brushed his jaw. His eyes snapped open, but it was too late. There was a flash of white as the melody stumbled to a shocked halt.
She stared at him as cool, damp air brushed past his cheek.
“No!”
“Your face…”
He tore away from her. “Why?” he snarled, a hand coming up to cover what it could.
She flinched back, her eyes going wide. “Y-you’re beautiful.”
His jaw clenched, a subtle difference in the muscles there, the way his lips met. He suppressed a shudder as his own fingers met his jaw, his lips…so even… Then further, past his nose, along his brow, smooth and pristine flesh under his touch. What—? That man—that devil—what had he done? He had made him—
“Beautiful,” Christine repeated, gaze transfixed. With one hand, she held out the mask she had torn from him.
His hand snatched it instinctively. He had never seen such an expression, not because of him, not from someone who had seen. He glanced down at the mask, the glare of the candles flicking across its surface. It had been his face for many years. And now… His skin prickled, and with a shudder he hurled it across the room. It shattered against the cold stone of the floor.
Christine let out a soft gasp. His head snapped to her, and she flinched back. “Please,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
A warmth rose in his new face, and he fought the urge to turn from her, to cower and hide. Coward! Pathetic! He seized Christine’s wrist.
“Please, I—”
“Quiet.” He tugged her in the direction of the boat. “We must take you home before they discover your absence. It would do no good to damage your career before it takes wing.”
Hands trembled. Fingers clenched to still them. Open, then closed. Open again. A hand crept up toward his face… No, back down to clench. Nails bit into palms. Christine was back where she belonged, and he… Porcelain crunched under his boot. He glanced down at the jagged shards, then back up. The mirror. Shrouded now in curtains but easily stripped bare.
His…face. His face, smooth-cheeked and whole. And in the mirror, a step behind…
“I see you’ve noticed my little modifications.”
“What have you done?” he whispered.
“Only what you wanted.” He tsked. “Pesky little things, hidden desires.”
“What I…?” He whirled, rounding on the intruder.
The strange man raised a hand. “Didn’t she like it?”
“She… She said I was…beautiful.”
A broad grin shot over his face. “Then it seems congratulations are in order.” He glanced around. “Where has she gone off to?”
“I brought her home. She—”
“And why ever would you do that?”
“She saw me.” He turned and flinched at the vision in the mirror. “I couldn’t…”
The stranger came up behind Erik again and put his hands on his shoulders. He stiffened under the touch. “You can court her now like any other man.”
Court her? Because now, after what this devil had done, that was truly what he was. Just an ordinary man. He could walk through town, and no one would turn to stare. He could stroll through the park, Christine on his arm…
“You have that freedom now.” He leaned close, the words curling at Erik’s ear. “Do with it what you wish.”
And then he vanished. Again. Damn him. He certainly had a point though. He needed to see Christine. Several hours and multiple changes of clothes later, he stood in front of the mirror, bouquet clutched in his hand, quite nearly able to meet his own gaze. Christine would be arriving at the opera house soon.
As he strode down the passage behind Christine’s mirror, voices echoed through the walls. He slowed, picking them out.
“...just vanished! I was worried for you, Christine.”
“I’m fine, Raoul. I just needed to go home, I was tired.”
“But there was a voice! A man’s voice! I heard you speaking with him!”
“I— Were you eavesdropping? My conversations are my own.”
He could see them through the mirror now, a disapproving look turning down Christine’s lips as the irritating young man implored her to hear him out. Why was he here? What intentions did he have with her?
“I apologise, I may have gotten ahead of myself. It’s just that… When I think about that summer in Lannion, that red scarf…” He took a step back. “I just want you to be safe. I missed you.”
Christine’s face softened, and she looked up at the boy with a gentle smile. “Oh, Raoul, I missed you too.”
“Then come to dinner with me, Christine.” He took her hand. “Please, say you will.”
“Oh, all right. Yes. Of course, I will go to dinner with you.” She smiled wider, and he brought her hand to his lips.
The flowers in Erik’s hand crumpled, torn white petals dropping to the floor.
The boy slept soundly, even as Erik stood over him. It hasn’t been difficult to locate the De Chagny residence, and slipping from the rooftop in through the large windows had been similarly effortless. Now, he stood over the young vicomte, rope winding around his fingers.
His hand darted forwards, clasping dainty wrists. The boy startled from his sleep with a gasp, but it was already too late. He jerked instinctively, trying to get away, but Erik pulled his arms up, dragging him out of bed. He hauled him to a chair and shoved a rag into his mouth before he could shout for aid.
“I have a few questions for you, Vicomte. And you will answer, if you care at all for Miss Christine Daaé.”
The vicomte’s eyebrows shot up in alarm, and he made a muffled grunt.
“You will not call out when I remove the fabric. They will not catch me, and you will not find the consequences of disobeying me pleasant.” He tightened the ropes at his wrists. The boy let out a whimper, and tears filled his eyes. Pathetic. What could Christine possibly see in him? “Am I understood?”
The vicomte nodded, and Erik removed the gag.
“What—?”
He held up a finger. “Shh, I am asking you questions, silly vicomte. Now, tell me. What do you intend with our dear Christine?”
“I-I wish to court her, to wed her eventually.”
Erik measured his breath, drawing in the air carefully and holding his voice even. “And what would such a fine gentleman as yourself want with a chorus girl, hmm? I believe you have far higher prospects.”
“I don’t want—”
“Wouldn’t you like to see your dearest childhood friend succeed in life? Shouldn’t you wish her to be happy?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Then you, Vicomte, will become the National Opera’s finest patron. I will require a rather generous stipend, and the remainder can be put towards the opera. The rest, you can leave to me. Miss Daaé will become the greatest prima donna Paris has ever seen.”
The vicomte’s eyes widened, and he nodded quickly. “Please, just don’t hurt her.”
“Oh, I will not be the one hurting her. You will. But only if you do not do as I say. And you will do as I say and stay far away from Miss Daaé. It would not do to have anyone lead her astray. She has rehearsals to attend to, lessons to practice for. Is that clear?”
“I—”
Erik pulled the ropes tight, weak wrists creaking under the pressure.
“Yes! Yes, it’s clear!” the boy gasped out, those pathetic tears streaming from his eyes once more.
“Good.” Erik released him and strode to the window. The young man could free himself, or not. He was a naval officer after all.
They’d never had a lesson in natural light.
Christine moved through their exercises slowly, seemingly equally mystified by their new arrangement. Her focus kept slipping, her gaze drifting, each note not quite as supported as it should have been.
He reached out to press her shoulders down from where the tension was drawing them up. “Again.”
He allowed her the entire first section before he halted her progress. “Closer. Your lower notes were terribly unsupported. Feel your breath here.” He pressed his hand low on her abdomen, and she inhaled sharply. “Good. We’ll begin again.”
She nodded, her eyes unfocused.
“Christine.”
She startled. “I…”
“You are not listening to the music. It is tossing you about and disrupting your breath.” Perhaps it was that stupid boy who had her so enamoured.
“I’m… It’s just…” She looked down, a flush growing in her cheeks. “The new managers seemed to like my performance, but I-I know that I still have far to—’
“Those idiots would not know beauty if beauty itself sang for them.”
She jumped but nodded, looking back up at him. That strange expression crossed her face again, her eyes suddenly glassy. “You have been such a good teacher to me these months. I… Why did you hide yourself from me?”
“The music is what matters.”
“And you don’t?”
He blinked, meeting her eye.
“Your music, I mean.” She stammered, her cheeks newly flushed. “I heard some of it that night, and it was…”
“Burning,” he said softly. “But cold. Stark yet beautiful in a way that none could convey. Until you… The opera… It is to be my opus, my Don Juan Triumphant.”
“Will you publish it, then?”
Publish? Under his own name?
“Can we practice something from it?”
“No.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why not?”
Why not, indeed? Hadn’t his circumstances changed? Perhaps the devil was right. It was worth a try, at least. He turned back to the piano. “Not to practice, but I will play it for you.”
She nodded slowly, wide eyes fixed on him.
“This piece…no soul living has heard such a thing.”
He began in voice, then let the piano fill between the notes. She swayed to the shape of the melody beside him, the unexpected brush of silk on wool an alien sensation. When the piece concluded, he began the next. Any hesitance he had was lost to the strength of the music. She had been such a receptive student; that was why she was here now. That devil, for all his trickery, had given him this. An Aminta for his Don Juan.
Entering the managers’ office unseen was child’s play. He’d often kept an eye on the previous manager, ensuring that his Opera ran smoothly and his fee continued to be paid. But these managers knew Erik not as a ghost but as no one in particular, and they reacted to his sudden appearance with far more annoyance than terror.
“How did you get in here!” the taller one—André?—screeched.
“More importantly, why are you in here?” The other, which must be Firman, glared at him.
You must reinstate Christine Daaé as prima donna at once. She is superior to La Carlotta in every conceivable way, and—”
“And who are you to have such bold opinions?” Firman asked firmly.
“I am Miss Daeé’s teacher.”
They glanced at each other and burst into laughter, André nearly slapping his knee. “Did you hear that?” he asked between cackles. “Her teacher?”
He started forwards, the garotte jumping into his hand, but… Christine. He wore no mask, no longer hid away in the dark. He could be known, now, and there was hardly a point of having this opportunity send him back underground so quickly. He smoothed his hand down his vest instead.
Firman sobered. “Sir, while I still do not understand why you are in here, I will tell you that every village music teacher claims his girl is the finest, and not a single one who has come to me has yet been right.”
Erik reached again for his pocket, but he left the garotte where it was. “As you say, gentlemen, but what if I were not, in fact, a village music teacher?”
“What are you, then?”
He drew out his newly acquired chequebook and hummed. “How does ten thousand francs sound?”
“A year?”
“A month.” He glanced up at them. “I believe the previous managers paid twice that to a ghost. Surely you would like to recoup some of those losses?
They glanced at each other, then back at him.
“To make Christine Daaé the prima donna,” André said flatly.
“To rescue this Opera from utterly abhorrent management…” They certainly seemed more open to threats with money on the table. “And to install Christine Daeé as prima donna, yes.”
“And that is your only demand?” Firman raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “I do have an opera of my own, newly penned.”
“Oh, a composer, of course.”
“Earning a few thousand francs without even having to acquire a new opera.” Erik inclined his head. “It hardly seems like an opportunity you could afford to ignore.”
They glanced at each other again, wordless, then back at him.
“Sir,” Firman said, offering his hand. “You have yourself a deal.”
Over the next few weeks, they worked through each aria, every duet and recitative in his work. Every moment not spent in lessons was spent composing new music for a second opera. He had not written so quickly in some time, inspiration sparking under his skin until the only true limit was slowing the pen enough to prevent the nib from biting the paper.
It poured from him in the same way that the music did when they sang together, when he accompanied her, and she was flushed and full with all its vibrant colours. Nothing else mattered save the music, save her, his melodies flowing from her lips. All of Paris—all the world—must hear it. And since his transformation, he had garnered the means by which to ensure it.
He returned to his box—his by right, now—for the night’s performance. A gaggle of ballerinas were loping lethargically across the stage, milkmaids chased back and forth by a buffoonish shepherd.
“I take it from your moderately less aggrieved expression that your plans have rather succeeded.” The man who was not a man was already in the box, shoes propped not even on an usher’s stool, but on the velvet cushion of a chair.
Erik settled stiffly next to him.
“You’re quite a strange creature, aren’t you?”
One of the ballerinas emerged dressed in cotton fluff—a poor sheep to be herded, trembling on narrow stockinged legs.
“You are pleased with my handiwork, though, aren’t you?”
“It…is different.”
He flashed a violently white smile. “Tell me, did she ever…sing…for you?”
“Oh, yes,” Erik breathed softly. “She was—is exquisite.”
The devil’s eyes sparkled with something like hunger. “Lovely.”
“The sweetest, clearest, warmest, greatest depth of feeling…”
“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together. “Certainly better than this drivel.”
“To compare Calliope to a common toad.” Erik glanced out over the stage. Charitably, the director, the choirmaster, and the dancemaster each deserved their own shares of the blame. There was certainly plenty to share. He glanced back at his companion. “Still, I fail to comprehend the benefit you derive from this…arrangement.”
“My profits are my own.” He winked. “I remain here merely to discover what you do with your newfound visage.”
Stagehands hauled set dressings across the stage, and Erik surveilled their movements. He had designed every moment of his opera to exacting standards, and each piece of the set had to be placed precisely. The vicomte ought to be grateful for Erik’s appropriation of his funds—how else was Christine to properly have her due?
She stood now in the wings as a costumer tugged at her many skirts, gaze fixed on a banquet table laden with empty goblets and wax fruit. When he approached, she startled, nearly upsetting the woman’s many pins.
“Sorry, I…I must be tired.”
“You will sing like an angel,” he said softly. “There is none better.”
“It’s everything I’ve dreamt of. Everything my father dreamt of. It’s so close now it’s terrifying.” She trembled, swaying nearer to him. “I have this terrible feeling I cannot shake that it will be taken away from me.”
“I will never let that happen.” The managers had arrived. They would begin soon.
“Sometimes, I worry that…”
“Come, we must finish our preparations.” He waited for the woman to finish with her final pins, took Christine’s hand, and led her off the stage.
The choirmaster, under explicit direction, was in the process of whipping his cast of occasional subpar voices into perfect working order. The master electrician had not much enjoyed Erik’s input but was forced to admit that Erik—having surreptitiously modified much of the wiring of the building—was rather better informed than he was. The conductor had been thoroughly warned of his expectations, and that horrendous oboist had been unceremoniously fired.
He took the stage without a single doubt, and Christine’s fears proved unnecessary the moment she began to sing. And the music did burn, just as he’d written it, every moment, every note drawing the audience deeper into its illusion. And Christine… Christine was magnificent, at turns meek and commanding, fleeing and pursuing.
The force of the music carried him through to the end, when the curtain came up to the applause. For the music. For his music. Christine stood at his side, and he turned to her, kneeling. He took her hand. “Christine, I wish to have you as my wife.”
Her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed. “I… Yes! Yes, of course. I’d like that.”
A warmth bloomed in his chest as he rose, and they took their final bows together. She held his hand long after the curtain fell. Everything he’d ever wanted lay before him, just within reach. He need only take it.