Page 3 of Angel's Fall
“She’s furious with you after the scene you made last night.” Philippe turned to Raoul. “But she’s always liked you, little brother. Perhaps after church, you can go.”
“Church?” Raoul furrowed his brow.
“It’s Lent,” Philippe replied with a put-upon scowl.
“Since when have you cared about Shrovetide?” Antoine asked.
“Since the two of you started talking so cavalierly about killing a man. I think it might do you some good to remember what today is about.” Philippe looked grimly at his younger brother and Raoul shivered. “Remember: thou art dust, and to dust you shall return.”
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There was no dawn inthe underground. Erik had come to accept that years ago. More than accept it, he enjoyed making his life in a place divorced from arbitrary ideas like hours and dates on a calendar. When you lived outside of time and the world, nothing could hurt you. It was safe in the quiet dark next to the lake, tucked into the foundations of the grandest opera house in Europe. Yes, he was a ghost, trapped in the shadows, but phantoms were not subject to the rules and vicissitudes of mortal men.
The ivory keys beneath his hands, only slightly paler than his skin, sang softly of loneliness and protection, of being untouched by the living world. Down here in the dark, he could sing forever, and no one could stop him or harm him, not even time. He liked losing himself in a book or a new invention or composition, only to find he had been transported through days. It was so easy to disappear.
Or it had been, before Christine Daaé walked into his life.
Erik stopped playing as he listened for movement from the adjacent room. Silence answered. He took up his quill to scratch a few more notes onto the parchment in front of him and considered the changes his Christine had wrought in his lonely existence.
His angel had come to him in the rain, fate placing her in the orbit of the famous Opera Ghost at just the right moment. Fate had taken pains in those early days to let him see her kindness and how lost she was. It had been a simple thing to reward a gentle soul by restoring her faith. Erik had shown her that ghosts were real, but Christine had not come to the Opera looking for ghosts.
It had been easy to become her Angel of Music, no different than pretending to be a ghost. But ghosts did not lust as he had for her, and angels did not sing their willing students to ecstasy as she had begged him to do. By the time Erik had realized he loved her, he had been lost entirely. So was she.
Erik smiled, the action still alien without the pressure of his mask against his face. Christine didn’t let him wear it when they were alone anymore, especially when they made love. Such a contrast to the first time he had bound her and blindfolded her just to caress her, doing all he could to hide. He had thought nothing would match the thrill of her skin beneath his fingers. How wrong he had been.
With each encounter, she amazed him. Last night more than ever, when she had trapped him beneath her and let him spill inside her, speaking an impossible confession.
He had woken next to her hours ago, and for a while, he had stayed, drinking in her beauty in the dim candlelight. Just as she had transformed his world all those months ago, now she had put an entire symphony into his brain with the miracle of her kindness. Her kiss.
Her love.
Erik knew of no other way to celebrate this miracle than through his music. So he had slunk from their bed to play and transcribe a fraction of the awe and disbelief and fear and love in his soul.
Erik didn’t look at the clock on the mantle to see the hour. He didn’t want to know how close he might be to reality’s return and the end of these dreams. Even after so many nights as Christine’s lover, he still feared the dawn beside her. Or maybe it was the simple fact that, in his heart, he knew that he was a monster undeserving of her light. He would keep that light, even so. He’d do anything to keep it.
“I knew I’d find you here.” Christine’s voice came from behind him in answer to a silent prayer.
It was like the sun breaking over a mountain at dawn, turning to see her. The sky brightened as she smiled, gentle and indulgent, and the warmth of day returned as she drew near.
“I am sorry if I woke you. I was inspired,” Erik murmured, taking in the beauty of the woman draped in dark sheets.
Perhaps there were those in the world above who would not find her perfect. They might deride the roundness of her hips and belly, the asymmetry of her eyes, the mess of her dark hair from a night of exertion, or the weakness of her chin. To Erik, she was nothing short of a goddess.
“I don’t fully believe that,” Christine admonished as she took her place next to him on the piano bench. “I think you ran off because you were afraid that I’d wake up and take it back. As if that were possible.”
“Anything is possible.” It was strange – after so many years of hiding his ruined face, with its corpse’s sunken nose and hideous scars – how odd it felt for his bare cheeks to heat with embarrassment.
“I meant it.” Christine caught Erik’s chin with her finger to make him look at her. She looked back at his face with all its horrors... and smiled. She kissed him softly and held his gaze as she drew away. A miracle once again. “I love you. You can’t run from it.”
Words failed him, even as unheard music surged through his soul. He twined his fingers with hers as he kissed her, for it was all he could do to express his awe and need. He wanted to hold her forever; freeze this instant and those words for all time. Could he ever ask for such a gift? Even as the kiss deepened, the answer flared in his mind. Erik sprang up.
“I said not to run!”
“Stay there! I – I have to find something.” Erik fled to his room. The ebony casket on his dresser was dusty. He hadn’t touched the little box in years, but its contents were still there. The cool, solid feel of metal in his hand soothed his rising nerves as he returned to find Christine standing in wait.
“Erik, what is that?”
“I told you about the party at my father’s house and being captured. The fire. I never told you why they thought I was a thief.” Even as he spoke, the memory of that awful night made the scars across his shoulder and chest prickle. His father’s pained voice calling out for his son at last echoed in his mind. Erik tightened his grip as Christine gave his hand a dubious look.
