270Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me, because believe me, if it were, poor, unhappy Erik would not have been so poor and unhappy!
Part I: Christine
Christine looked at her reflexion in the mirror once more, putting her hairbrush down with a shaky sigh.
Her golden hair was delicately tied in a modest style with a small blue hairpin -old and borrowed- that enhanced the color of her eyes. Her dress, of the purest white color and exquisite design, was simple in contrast with the elegant attires that women of the high class should probably wear in her same situation, she supposed, but it served its purpose of enhancing her best attributes and hiding the worsts.
Now she was only missing the veil, and she would be a perfect living bride.
She took the wretched object with trembling fingers, and still looking in the mirror, she put the veil on her head.
Christine could not stand the view. With aggressive urgency, she took the object off and had to resist the urge of throwing it across the room, as a little girl having a temper tantrum would.
Instead, she clasped the veil tightly in her hands and looked up once more to the mirror. She looked well without it, and could even pass as a normal bride, she thought, if it had not been for the noticeable lack of color on her usually rosy cheeks and the bags under her eyes. She pinched her face to make it regain some color and forced a smile to creep into her mouth, ignoring how the left corner quivered slightly at the effort. Her eyes looked empty.
She had no time to do more, for soon she heard the distinct knock of the door on the first floor, that more than the simple sound of metal against wood, it sounded like a guillotine blade ready to fall.
And she was right under it.
She dismissed the thought with a small forced giggle that equaled the awful smile before advancing towards the door of the room that would soon stop being hers. Christine took a deep breath, and before she could think any further, she emerged to the hallway, making her way to the top of the stairs, while in her hand still clutched the damned veil.
In the threshold, not quite outside and yet not quite inside either, stood a tall dark figure wearing an impeccable suit, hat, and cane. It was the living image of a gentleman; slightly inclined to hear the words of the small maid who had opened the door for him.
Before Christine could make her presence known, still standing at the top of the stairs, the figure looked in her direction, freezing her in her place.
The man wore a white mask that covered completely his face, and his eyes were hidden under the shadow of the rim of his hat. And yet she could feel his stare scanning every inch of her. Perhaps he was making sure he had chosen the right prize.
"Good evening, Christine," he said as he entered the house and the maid closed the door behind him. Calmness and merriness were noticeable in his voice, and yet that only made the little color that remained in Christine's face disappear.
Any doubt -and hope- she might have had about the man's identity disappeared into thin air: It was him, the Voice. With a living, breathing body made of flesh and blood just like hers. Her guide, her guardian, and her teacher.
And now her future husband, too, even if he still did not show a face.
"Good evening, Monsieur," she answered as she descended the stairs to the middle, trying her best to sound relaxed, "I'm afraid my Mamma's condition forbids her to leave her bedchamber, and we shall need to go there to have a word with her. Please, follow me, monsieur, my Mamma is waiting."
She turned around to ascend once again, perhaps a little stiffer and faster than she had intended, without ever turning back to be sure he was following. His steps were soundless, and that only unnerved her even more.
"I have brought you this," he said suddenly once they reached the top of the stairs, with his voice coming almost too quickly and slightly betraying his attempts to hide his nervousness.
He moved the hand that had until that moment being tightly clasped behind his back. A rose without thorns was delicately held between his long slender fingers; the red of the petals contrasting with the white of his gloves like fresh blood on snow.
She forced a smile and took the rose; their fingers never brushing, not even by mistake.
"It is beautiful, thank you," she said, bringing it closer to her face to smell its perfume. It was odorless.
"You look stunningly beautiful, Christine; all the angels in heaven would envy you tonight," he said, and Christine's throat tightened.
She offered another false smile and turned once again and kept walking towards Mme. Valérius' room, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling his usually well-received kind words had caused in her. She knocked on the door softly and entered followed by the man after hearing her Mamma's answer.
"Mamma," Christine started, trying her best to keep her voice normal and even forcing a bit of false excitement in it, "he's here; this is my fiancé."
Christine softly brushed the man's arm, but she did not feel the extremity underneath the clothes. They hung so big in him that his body lost its shape beneath the fabric.
"Oh, the Angel of Music is finally here!" Exclaimed the soft yet firm voice of Madame Valérious, who laid in her bed, with the covers up to the chin. Christine quickly moved to hold her arm and help her sit.
The man greeted her politely, but Christine noted that he made no attempt to move closer as if the threshold provided some kind of safety to him. Under the mask, the expression of the man had changed to one of confusion after hearing the strange name.
"I am very thankful with you for receiving me tonight despite the unfortunate circumstances," he started, his voice as melodious as always, "for it would be an honor for us to receive your blessing for our marriage."
Madame Valérious, who had been trying to hold a cup of tea without her unhealthy pale and trembling hands making her spill its content, slowly set her cup down.
"Christine informed me about it," She said, looking at them, "And as I told her, I shall tell you too, Monsieur: I do not understand this rushed course of actions! But since it is my sweet Christine's decision, I cannot deny it."
Oh, on moments like those Christine could almost forget of her Mamma's condition! The woman could be so lucid every once in a while, that it brought a bitter taste to Christine's mouth every time she remembered that those moments of clarity would become less and less frequent. That was if she did not do something about it, as Christine repeated in her head for perhaps the billionth time that week alone.
Madame Valérious smiled, looked down for a moment, and then continued:
"But, my dear, are you completely sure?"
"Yes," Christine replied automatically, allowing no time for the question to plant any kind of doubt in her.
"Then you have my blessing, but..." the woman made another pause, and from the corner of her eye, Christine saw the strange man clutching his cane harder. She could have sworn that his shoulders also tensed, but his suit fitted him so poorly that it was impossible to confirm it.
"Why so quick?" She finally asked. Christine let out a sigh, without even noticing before that she was holding her breath.
When Christine had first told Madame Valérius of her decision, she had begged her to not ask any questions to her fiancé on the day her Mamma met him, partly because the Voice had been initially very reluctant in meeting her guardian at all, and partly because she herself did not want to have to answer anything. However, she had needed to satisfy her Mamma's curiosity on her own and had even told her a few lies - especially about the motive for their union.
"We just think it is time," the man answered, his tone sounding more relaxed. His grip on the cane had also lessened. He quickly continued before the woman could ask so much, "I know, madame, that it is untraditional of me to do this, but I have come tonight to take Christine with me. The wedding arrangements are made, and it is to be celebrated tonight."
The old woman's eyes widened in surprise, and her wrinkled hand came up to her face to fix her glasses. Mamma Valérius, bless her soul, had not even noticed the young couple were already in their wedding attire.
"Oh, I see, then!" Her Mamma smiled, "it is because angels have limited time for these mortal activities, am I right? Must be!"
A month before, Christine would have giggled at her Mamma's silliness; always so distracted and imaginative! Now, however, this had only brought a sad smile to Christine's face and pain to her heart.
And now that Christine found herself in a carriage, with her bag by her side and an engagement ring on her finger, she had to remind herself, while tightly gripping her expensive-looking dress, that she was doing this for her, for her mamma.
She closed her eyes and let the memories of a week before flood her mind:
It had hardly been her seventh lesson with the Voice, and she had come nearly half an hour late to the dressing room. The Voice, never the patient type, took no time before remarking on this.
She had then turned around, her eyes full of yet-unshed tears, and whatever disapproving remark that had been about to be said, was immediately replaced for ones of concern:
"Christine, whatever is wrong? Why are you crying? It pains me to see you cry," The Voice had asked, and Christine, not being able to hold it back any longer, had simply let the tears fall free.
She had only known this person -and was not even sure he was a person back then- for a little more than three weeks, and yet he already had had her complete trust. Something in the way he always seemed so concern, so attentive, so interested in every gossip and senseless talk they had even when it was the most boring of things, like how she had lost a button the night before when trying to fix her dress or how one of the eggs she had bought for breakfast had broken in her bag, had made him her biggest confident in a matter of days.
"It's my mamma. Mamma Valérious," she said, her beautiful voice flooding with worry and sadness.
"Is she alright?" Replied the Voice, and the genuine concern evident in his words only made Christine cried harder.
She had to cover her mouth for a moment to drown the sobs before answering:
"No, she is not," cried Christine, "Oh, she is so ill! So, so ill! The doctors insist that there is still hope, but she requires such expensive treatments! Oh, Angel, we would never be able to afford it! Her small fortune was so foolishly spent in my artistic education, and my salary as a chorus girl would never be enough! We could never afford the treatment, and yet I would do anything for the money to help her! I owe her everything I have! She's... she's the only family I still have... And I... And I..."
After that, she had not been able to say more, for her own weeping made it impossible for her to continue. Her angel, as she had dared to think of him at that moment, spoke:
"I can give you the money."
Her eyes had snapped open at that moment, looking up to the mirror in front of her. She had been so lost in her grief that had not even noticed when she had fallen on her knees and buried her face on her hands.
"No, I cannot accept that!" She exclaimed, "the money is too much for me to ever repay you!"
"Then you do not need to ever repay me," the Voice had argued as if stating the obvious.
"That would just make it worse!" She cried, "I cannot have such a debt with you, who have been always so kind to me! I need a way to repay you. Tell me how I beg you! Tell me what can I do for you, what do you want, and I shall give it to you instead!"
There had been a long pause in which she thought for a horrifying moment that the Voice had left her, and the thought alone had almost brought new tears to her eyes. After all, what could a simple chorus girl have to offer?
"Marry me," he had said with a trembling voice that made Christine think that, perhaps, he was crying too, "Marry me and let me share my life with you. That is all I want."
Her mouth had opened slightly in surprise, not expecting such proposal, and her own reflexion looked back at her in astonishment between the remaining of tears and swollen eyes. The Voice must have then mistaken her silence for a refusal, for it quickly tried to fix the situation, which had suddenly filled with tension:
"It is not necessary if you do not wish to do it. I will give you the money regardless of your answer, Christine, for simply making you happy is enough payment already. I do not want to-"
"I will," she interrupted him, taking her decision firmly before he regretted his own idea, "I will be your wife, and will let you share your life with me. Just give me a week."
The next morning, she had found on her dressing room the engagement ring that now seemed to burn on her skin and the veil that she clutched in her hands as if her life depended on it.
He was her guide, her guardian, her protector, and for a brief moment, she had considered that perhaps he was also her Angel of Music, as Mamma Valérious had suggested, and she already felt in debt with him. She had thought, at that moment of bravery, that even if she could never repay him with money, she would pay him with her heart, body, and mind.
It was, she thought, a small price to pay for her Mamma's health and for him to have made her song take wing once again.
But now, a week later and finally realizing the real impact her promise would have on the rest of her life, she could not help feeling as if she had dug her own grave. How could all the trust she had felt for her dear invisible friend have vanished into thin air as soon as he had become more than a silly invention of her imagination?
Was it, perhaps, the cold realization that she had in fact been locking herself each day with a real man in her room? Where was her decency, the purity she was most proud about? In the end, she thought, she had ended up like many other chorus girls in her position did, even though she always swore she would never sell her life and love for the sake of luxury.
She felt almost betrayed by his existence, she realized. She had not asked him directly -though she had planned to do it soon- whether or not he was an Angel, so in truth, he had not lied to her. But it still felt oddly impossible and indecent for him to be a living man. Christine discovered, once again, that the reality was that she had never asked about his origin because she had not wanted to. She had wanted to pretend that he was nothing but a Voice; perhaps even the Angel her father had promised and her Mamma had suggested, but without truly getting a confirmation nor a denial.
She looked down to her folded hands, where her engagement ring shone in the last moments of daylight.
Even in its simplicity, it was a beautiful thing: a precious, delicate band of gold adorning her hand. But it felt incredibly wrong, and the size had nothing to do with that sensation. Wearing it felt like blasphemy; profaning a symbol of love and promises for something as vile as money was, and the mere sight of it resting so placidly on her finger made her wince.
She knew she should be happy about this. She was going to get married! She should want this. But she didn't. She felt trapped in a cage like a mouse put into a snake's tank to be devoured.
And his silence was not helping either.
The man had not said a single word or made a single sound since they had parted from Mme. Valérious' house, and now, in the near darkness of the dusk, his presence was starting to feel even more out of place, with his hidden eyes scanning her every move once again. He seemed to be studying her.
"What is your name?" She asked without even thinking. She was suffocating under his invisible gaze.
"My name..." he made a small pause, almost as if he tried to remember, "I do not know the name my mother gave me if she ever gave me one, but you may call me Erik."
The name sent a shiver down her spine as if the name did not belong to her future husband, but rather, her killer, her inquisitor, her personal demon. Erik, the evil spirit. Erik, the demonic violinist. Erik, the-
No. Erik, the man. Just like that. No angel, no voice, no demon. Just a human. Her fiancé.
"Erik," she tried the name, rolling it in her tongue to tattoo it in her mind, "it is not French."
"You are probably right," he answered, but gave no further explanation.
They continued in silence for the rest of the journey; with his eyes still absorbing every move she made, and with her still trying to pretend that it didn't bother her.
By the time the carriage stopped in front of a small church, the daylight had almost completely disappeared. Growing shadows covered the world, devouring the light. Christine could not avoid feeling that that was exactly what was occurring to her life, too.
Erik descended from the carriage, and after a moment of consideration, offered his gloved hand for Christine to hold it and help her get down. She offered an awkward smile of gratitude and took it.
She had to suppress a gasp.
His hand was frozen and extremely bony, and in the fraction of a moment in which their hands joined, the horrid idea of his hand being nothing but rotting bones under the white clothing appeared in her head and made her jerk her hand away and cradle it against her chest instinctively.
"Forgive me!" He babbled with such regret impregnating his words, that she was ready to give him her hand again, but he had jerked his hand back as quickly as her, almost as if her touch -or rather, her reaction, thought Christine with shame- had burned him, taking a step back, before she even had the time to move again, "Forgive your Erik!"
And he moved out of her sight to the front of the carriage before she had blinked, leaving Christine to descend by herself, alone with her thoughts.
In the lapse of a second, she had seen the most vulnerable of creatures. His tone, his movements, his reaction; everything had made her think of an abandoned street dog who had known nothing but unkindness in its life. And she felt like she had just thrown another rock to it, adding one more to the endless list of scars. The thought filled her with a mixture of guilt, shame, and sadness, but under it all, a strange hint of curiosity also bloomed.
"Come, Christine," Erik said coming back from the front, straightening his waistcoat and with his composure intact once again, as if the incident of just a moment before had never happened. Yet, she noticed he kept his distance, "it's getting late."
He started pacing towards the front of the church, and Christine followed right after, silently thanking that he had not offered her his arm, and feeling guilty about that sentiment of relief.
The church was everything but amazing. It had already looked small from the outside, but Christine had the sensation that it was even smaller inside; with barely three rows of seats in each side, the rug under her feet in a desperate need for cleaning, a forgotten organ in the corner, and the altar in the front consisting of nothing but a gigantic wooden cross on the wall and a long table covered in a white cloth.
Nevertheless, it was still a church, and Christine thanked the heavens that she had at least been able to get married in the house of God. His presence reminded her that this was her place, for every son and daughter had the sacred duty to see and care for their fathers and mothers because even if Mamma Valérius was not truly her mother, the woman had taken care of her and loved her since a very young age. Christine took a deep breath and thought that this was right, this was for her; for her Mamma. The thought gave her strength.
Erik cleared his throat and announced to what Christine thought the empty space of their arrival.
"Ah! Is it the couple? Come, come! We must begin at once!" Said a voice coming from the front bench. An old man dressed as a priest stood up, and Christine felt almost ashamed for not having noticed his presence.
Erik walked to the altar without turning to Christine's direction, and she followed right after.
"Wait," said Erik, raising his hand to stop Christine. He walked slowly towards her, and in a quick and agile move took the veil from her hands -she had completely forgotten the existence of the object, but her rigid muscles apparently had not-, and in an instant he had adjusted it over her head and covered delicately her face with it, "It is the tradition for the groom to wait for his bride at the altar."
And before she could say anything else, Erik moved to the altar. He folded his hand in front of him, and patiently waited for her, shamelessly looking in her direction as the expression of his mask remained unreadable. The music of an organ sounded weakly, and Christine found no force in herself to turn her head and see who was playing the instrument.
Christine closed her eyes as she took the first steps to the altar. In her mind, she was in a beautiful cathedral; the light of the day coming in different colors through the colorful designs of the windows, and the infinite rows of benches were filled with happy faces -among them, Mamma Valérious and her dear parents stood out-, admiring the stunning young bride, whose own happiness could light up the whole place. Her groom was waiting, tall and handsome but oh, so kind and with the sweetest smile in the world; with his undying love for her radiating from his every pore.
Yes, that was a wonderful fantasy. She decided that said fantasy was better than her cruel reality, and by the time she came down from her cloud, the stranger and she were already husband and wife.
It was just time for the kiss.
Author's Note: Hello! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter; I swear I poured what little I have left of my heart in it! Forgive me for the cheesy title, but I'm honestly empty when it comes to that. I guess I'll stick to that one until I find another one I feel fits better. I'm trying to stay as faithful to the original book characters as possible, so all comments, suggestions and tactful critics are really, really appreciated!:)