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It was quiet. Shocking, considering the events that had only just transpired in this damp little alcove on the lagoon’s edge. He had relished in silence for so much of his life—or so he told himself to make it easier to bear—and yet now, knowing what that silence meant, it had never before been so suffocating. For it meant that everything he had ever wanted was getting further and further away with every passing second, entirely by his own hand.
A shuddering breath escaped Erik’s lips as he looked down at the delicate veil laying over his legs. He hadn’t managed to make himself rise from the floor where he had crumbled after she had left on a tearful goodbye. Uncomfortable, yes—the damp cold of the stone floor bit at his skin, even though his trousers, and the angle at which his legs were bent was far from pleasant—but he had yet to find the strength to move. His fingers stroked over the tulle on his lap, draped over his lower half so much like the skirts of that damned wedding dress, the garment he should never have made and pushed her into, expecting her to go along with his love-crazed fantasies.
She was far too wise for that, Christine. She knew her own mind so well, there was no manipulating her now that she had come into herself so much. There was so much for her to live for and there was no part of his life below the world of normal men and women that could provide that for her. The Vicomte could, as much as he resented the boy; he was young, handsome, rich, and, though Erik was loath to admit it, he seemed to care for Christine, love her. Now, when he could look back at everything in hindsight and reflect on what a beast he had been, he knew that that was all he wanted. Christine deserved to be loved and he wanted that for her, even if it broke his heart to admit that he was not the one who would give her that.
He could hear them down the shoreline, shuffling about against the stones, their voices carrying despite efforts to keep quiet. He had told them to take the boat to make the quickest escape possible, knowing very well that an angry mob would be down after him any time now. The Opera Ghost had finally gone too far for their liking and they would stand for his antics no longer. Let them come, he thought, tipping his head and feeling twin tears run down his cheeks. So long as she goes free, they can find me, hang me, display my head, whatever they wish. As long as she is safe.
With the utmost reverence and gentility, he collected the veil in his arms, pressed it to his face to catch the faintest hint of Christine’s perfume lingering on its fabric. “Up, Erik. She would want you to get up,” he whispered to himself, and with a deep steeling breath, lugged himself to his feet. His knees buckled as he rose with what felt like the weight of the world upon his shoulders, the same ones that had already carried so much for so long. The veil was settled over his throne, draped with care despite the fact that it would likely get stuffed in a hatbox where he could never gaze upon it again. Even with all of the pain that he carried, he couldn’t bring himself to treat anything that had once been Christine’s with violence or hatred. That would be a disservice to its owner, to the beautiful head this veil had once adorned.
The sound of sloshing water made his heart skip a beat, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions. They had set off, the young couple set free from his clutches. Raoul was unsteady in the boat, stumbling about as it rocked while still trying to assist Christine. She knew how to handle the gondola better than he did, but he still wished to support her; not a bad quality in him, if Erik was pressed to admit it. He could only pray that that care and attention would continue through their impending marriage.
He made the mistake of letting his gaze linger too long and met Christine’s eyes. Why on earth was she even looking at him, he wondered, giving him any more of her time or energy? Why wouldn’t she be staring forward, desperate to move past this horrid chapter of her life, or watching her handsome, dashing Vicomte with complete trust that he would row her to safety? He was hardly worthy of being seen by her, especially not in this sorry state—mask and wig long gone, clothes dishevelled and cheeks tearstained. To be looked at and seen by a woman as divine as Christine Daaé was nothing short of a gift, one that he did not deserve, had never truly deserved.
Raoul caught his eye too. That look was far more harsh and carried a very clear warning: Stay far away from us. The boy would go to the ends of the earth for Christine, that much was clear, and for that, Erik could only commend him. He felt the very same, after all, but didn’t have the means, wherewithal, or storybook looks and gentility to carry it out. The Vicomte did, so at the very least, Christine would have that, even if her life in the opera house was to be sacrificed for one of parties and stuck-up nobility. At least she would have someone by her side to protect her from anything that might seek to harm her…him included, in Raoul’s eyes.
The gondola pushed off from the shore then. Erik hadn’t realized that there were still parts of his heart intact up until that point, but he felt them splinter in his chest then, seal his fate as a shattered man with no one to love or live for. Raoul’s boat skills were shoddy; perhaps they would capsize and Erik would be forced to rescue them, wouldn’t that be just hilarious?
Well…rescue Christine. Raoul would sort it out himself, surely.
He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his back on the retreating couple when he heard what was unmistakably a stifled sob from his Angel. Oh, as if he couldn’t loathe himself more for the evening’s events, the reminder that he had made her cry, that he was still making her feel such innate pain that she wept, only made it worse. It was like an ache deep in his core, one so strong that he doubled over, fists pressed against his stomach, and let a whimper slip through gritted teeth. Everyone who had ever defined him as a beast had been right, he was one. He could pride himself on dressing like a gentleman, walking and talking like one, but inside, deep down, he was nothing more than the bitter, caged animal that he had been turned into the moment his mother cast him out.
He could blame her, he supposed, that wretched woman whose cold abandonment had turned him into this monster in a roundabout way, but really, he knew that argument held no water. His mother wasn’t here, she wasn’t the one who had tried to force Christine’s hand into something so everlasting as a marriage with a man she didn’t want. No, that was entirely his own doing; he was an adult, old enough to know how to make decisions that weren’t completely selfish and brutal to those he cared about. He had done it so many times in the past, how had he not learned? His mother would probably laugh, if he were honest with himself. That or weep for how little of an impact her strict parenting had had, he couldn’t quite say.
“Angel.” Her voice roused him from his downward spiral, as it always had. If there was anything that could refocus him from a moment of pain or blind rage or panic, it was her. Her voice pierced through all other noise, every other feeling, and recentered him. She had always had that power over him, from the very beginning. He had long been in tune with how her voice changed with emotion, how it gave away what she was feeling even if she hadn’t yet uttered a word to explain herself. That was how, so long ago, he had learned of how deeply teasing from the other ballerinas cut her, how fresh her grief over her departed father still was, even months, years, later. It had taught him how to comfort her, even when he had still been just a disembodied voice behind a mirror. He had learned so much about her, about himself, with those simple realizations, and he had never been able to forget it.
The pain in her voice now, the aching, even as she was taken away after the evening’s tragedies, could be so plainly heard that only a fool would miss it. She was asking for him, calling his attention back to her…and he was powerless to refuse her.
As he turned back towards the lake, what he stumbled across was the last thing he would have ever expected. After all he had done, all he had said, the way he had hurt her…there was his Angel, his Christine, at the stern of the boat, reaching for him. Tears were pouring down her face, he could see it even from the banks, and she was reaching out for him, trying to get to him when she was actively being taken away.
She wanted him.
He couldn’t recall the last time his feet had moved so fast. Certainly never for something so astounding as this; any previous occasion had likely been to escape someone in pursuit of him, seeking to hurt him. Now, though, for once, he was running towards someone with the knowledge that he was being called to her side out of need, she wanted his presence at her side. How brilliant that change felt, to be wanted and drawn to someone rather to be hated and chased away.
Time seemed to slow as he ran, or perhaps that was how the water made his legs drag as he waded through it. The Vicomte certainly wasn’t going to bring the boat any closer to him for his advantage, so to them he would go. The lagoon water was freezing—there was a reason why he never ventured into it—but his heart was so full that it combated the biting cold with its overwhelming warmth. So quickly was he moving that his usual grace completely abandoned him, and at an unexpected dip in the lagoon’s floor, his footing was entirely lost and he fell beneath the water.
What an impression, he mused as he surfaced, sputtering and wiping water from his face before he ventured forth. You’ve already made yourself out to be a clear fool, Erik, and now you fail to walk through water like a capable adult. Instill more confidence in her, why don’t you?
The boat, to his surprise, had stopped, no doubt thanks to Christine’s being able to convince her boy to wait even for a moment. Shocking that Raoul would listen, frankly, considering what he had been subjected to, but it spoke volumes to Erik about his care and concern for Christine’s desires. Another thing he couldn’t hold against the young man, but would rather have to credit him for. Truly unfortunate.
“Christine,” he breathed as he finally reached the boat. His eyes flitted for the briefest of moments to the catacombs behind them, the sound of the approaching angry mob reverberating down from the higher levels. They were working with borrowed time; if they lingered, he would be caught and the young couple would be trapped amidst the madness. They needed to flee before the mob even got close, for all three of their sakes.
Upon looking back to Christine, he noticed the tears running down her face. The sight broke his heart, the knowledge that he was the cause of those tears only worsened the ache in his chest. “Please, my Angel, don’t,” he whispered. He reached up to dry her cheek with the gentlest touch of the back of his knuckle. “I can hardly bear to see you like this.”
His hand had hardly fallen away from her face when the last thing he could possibly have anticipated did, in fact, happen. Christine’s hands came to rest on his face, unabashedly, without fear or disgust. Her palms against his cheeks, fingertips resting just beneath his ears, and with a gentle tug, she had drawn closer and her lips were on his. For the third time that night, this perfect woman, his Christine, had deigned to kiss him. Could this be why she had called him to her? The return of his ring had not felt like a suitable farewell to her, so she chose to bestow this gift upon him?
Every instinct told him to pull away, not to allow this, but for once in his life, he chose to stay rather than flee. He allowed himself to fall into the kiss, to place one hand on her waist—lightly, water still dripped from his fingertips and might damage that dainty lace—and allow her to part his lips with her own. It was far from the dream kiss he had long imagined, but compared to their earlier embrace, one brought on out of desperation and a plea to save her young Vicomte’s life, this was everything he could have hoped for.
“Christine,” he said on an outgoing breath as they parted just enough for him to meet her gaze, to search her face for the answers he was so desperately seeking. “What was–”
“Angel, I want you.”
He could have sworn his heart went still as a stone in his chest at those four whispered words. His jaw went slack, working aimlessly to find a response and coming up short. Her tear-filled eyes provided no further explanation, but…dear God, she meant it, didn’t she? Behind the mistiness was a desperate, pleading, look of complete conviction and it was utterly terrifying, it made his stomach twist into near-painful knots as he began rushing through the implications of those words. He cast a quick glance at Raoul and was met with an expression of complete confusion—clearly, he hadn’t heard the words that were exchanged, merely witnessed the kiss that was just as shocking for him as it had been for Erik.
“Take me with you,” Christine continued in a hushed voice, filling the silence when he failed to do so himself. “Whatever you have to offer through your music and magic, I want. So long as you are there, Angel, please, I will come with you.”
The heart that had only just stopped immediately roared to life, pounding in his chest like a herd of galloping horses. She…she wanted him, she was choosing him! A life with him, no matter what it brought, so long as they had music and had each other. It was all he had wanted, all he had dreamed of, all he had offered her when he had demanded her hand in marriage, and—
And therein lay the issue. One of many.
He knew his answer. Knew what it needed to be, that there was no alternative if he truly loved her. He had let her go for the very same reason, and now, as she reneged in a moment of high emotion and fear…well, it would be no more honest than if he had allowed her to stay after their first kiss, now would it? He had not had much time to reflect on his actions that night leading up to this moment, but it had been enough to know what the future held for the three of them. Enough to know that what was best for her was far more important than what he considered to be “best” for himself. For the very first time, he was choosing to think of someone else before his own wants and needs…but by God, was it painful.
He worried his lower lip and glanced at Raoul again. The young man had taken a step closer, and the look on his face revealed that he now was understanding their discussion. “Christine,” he quietly implored, begging to understand this apparent change of heart.
The boy didn’t deserve this, Erik realized; the bright red ring around his neck was plain enough evidence to that point. Nor did Christine, most of all her. She thought she knew what she was getting herself into, but she didn’t. He did, and he would save her from this. All he ever wanted to do was save her.
“No…no, my darling,” he finally managed to say, the words already strangled as welling tears tightened his throat. “You won’t.”
Her face fell, and he heard the Vicomte suck in a breath. In truth, he still hadn’t come to terms with the words; all he knew was that they were the right words, the ones that needed to be said. His hand shook as he reached out to brush her cheek in an effort to soothe her. Deep down, what he wanted to do was to kiss her face all over, smoothing away any frowns and worries, but that too, he knew, was not to be, never to be.
“But…but that is what I want,” she began to insist, her hands dropping to grip his shoulders. “Please, Angel, music is my everything, you are—”
"Christine," he interrupted to say. He offered a wobbly smile and shook his head as though dismissing the very concept. "We both know very well that that is not the truth. Not entirely, at least."
"You- that is what you offered to me only a short time ago. You offered precisely that! A life with you, one of music and love, we can have that."
"The way that I put that choice to you negates everything positive about it, as has much of what I have done to you. I know that you know that as well as I."
She was scrambling for a response, that much was obvious. He could see her mind working for a solution to the conundrum they faced, one that was as simple as kissing him and winning her dear sweetheart's freedom. The answer was that easy, though, and they both knew it. Whether or not she would find it in herself to accept that was the struggle.
Raoul, to his credit—when would it end, Erik could only show him so much favour—had been remarkably patient. Even now, he rested his hand on Christine's back in a show of something akin to silent reassurance. Not without a suspicious look in Erik's direction, but nevertheless, remained by her side to see the matter through.
"You do not wish this life for yourself, my dear. I have nothing to offer you, nothing that would be of any good to you," he continued, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "You would wither and fade if you were to stay locked away down here with me."
“You would never let me fade, Angel, I know you wouldn’t,” Christine protested through a tearful laugh. She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You care for me too much for that to happen.”
“You are right. I do care for you too much, and that is precisely why I cannot let you make this decision. You will bloom wherever you are planted, so long as it is in the sun. This life with me, in the shadows, away from polite society for reasons both in and out of my control, is not one that you deserve. You should have all that the world can give you, whether that be parties, beautiful clothes, myriads of friends. Any and all of it, you should have.”
He glanced above their heads at the sound of raised voices growing closer by the moment. A shiver ran through his body, though whether it was from the chill of the water or sudden, unexpected fear of the approaching mob, he couldn’t quite tell. “A life on the run, escaping the consequences of my own actions, for confronting them would mean death, is not what I want to give you, and it is all that I would be able to offer. I do not want that for you,” he continued with a wry smile. “I…I only wish you to be happy. That is what your boy can give you.”
“Angel, I–”
“Christine. You do not even know my name. There is so much that you do not know, and that would make my taking you for myself so terribly unfair to you.” His eyes welled with fresh tears as her face crumpled and she wrapped her arms around him in another embrace, head on his shoulder. “I could not be the husband you need, and if you were to wish for children, well…there is so much about me I would never wish to inflict on an infant,” he whispered in her ear, one hand moving to cradle her head. “You must see, my dear, why you cannot stay. It simply is not possible, as much as I wish that it were.”
She sniffled against his shoulder, her face pressed against the crook of his neck. He sighed and took advantage of her closeness, wrapping her fully in his arms, lace of her dress be damned. If this was truly the last moment they were going to have together, he was going to take complete advantage of it, the way he had wished to when she had returned his ring but hadn’t been able to act on.
Eventually, she raised her head to meet his gaze again. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks tearstained, but even still, she managed a smile. “I love you,” she whispered. “I think…part of me always has.”
“Perhaps, but not in the same way that you love your Vicomte. It has taken time for me to accept that, but I do,” Erik replied with a nod. “But I, my dear, love you more than you can or will ever understand. It runs so deep in my bones, in the very fibre of my being, and I believe that it always will. I have cherished our time together so very much; it has brought me more joy than I have known perhaps in my entire life.
“I have so much to thank you for, and so much more to apologize for, but alas, we haven’t the time. Perhaps…perhaps we will cross paths again some time in the future and I will finally be able to put into words all that I want to say. For now, though, in our time apart, I shall celebrate every little milestone I happen to see about you and your new family in the newspapers, and I will applaud any and every victory you have on a stage from now until you can sing no more.”
Christine threw herself into his arms once more, holding him tight. Squeezing his eyes tight against a rush of tears, he pressed a gentle, reverent kiss to her cheek, then sat her up again. “You must go, my dear. You cannot be here when the mob finds their way down, it won’t be safe,” he urged. He glanced at Raoul then, gave him a nod. “Do take care of her for me, Vicomte. Do your very best.”
“I…I will,” Raoul replied. He seemed startled at being spoken to, but recovered quickly and gave him a firm, certain nod. “I will. I promise.”
“Thank you. Sincerely.” Erik took Christine’s hands, squeezed them tightly and offered a smile as he stepped away. He waded slowly back through the water and tried to memorize the scene before him so that he could hold on to this last glimpse of his love for as long as he lived. “Now go, my Angel. Soar without me. It is high time you had the chance.”