Chapter Text
Erik knew he could never be a normal man. Wandering through the world like a shadow of a fallen star, he became a reflection of all the hideous and odious things.
He thought it was fitting that he could at least have this.
He procured everything he needed: a wig, a real one made of human hair, a rich brown mane, washed and curled and set. A mannequin from a forgotten opera. Rouge, perfume of violets, rosewater to douse her face with. A wedding dress he had made-to-order with finest peau de soie, the color of woven nacre, a cascade of tulle and petticoats of thinnest silk. A veil of pure Alençon lace. Pleats, ribbon trims, a pouf of gathered cloud, trickles of sewn pearls like droplets of milk, of tears. Meters of fabric all gathered and forming her empty silhouette of tolling bells, a shroud of love.
He trembled as he assembled her. Her wig sprayed and doused with rosewater, cold, lifeless cheeks and lips dabbed with rouge. Erik dressed the doll with all the gentleness he could muster, his gloved hands shaking. He spritzed the gown with perfume, the violet scent appearing and disappearing about him, blinking and shivering.
He couldn’t bear to have his skin touch her.
***
Erik’s obsession began to leak into his mornings with Christine, barely even lessons anymore. He threw his voice into her body, into her throat, coaxing her more and more open, slipping inside her longer, deeper, helping her arch higher. If he were a dancer he would be dipping her low, his arms sustaining her, her figure barely floating off the ground, his hands gripping the small of her back. Fingers splayed against her warm body; curls trailing the floor like the wisps of a willow upon the water of a shore. Images of her leaning back in a boat with her head bent over the side came to him unbidden, her hair a train of longing ripples behind them along the waves, like fingers skimming upon his heart.
Her eyes closed, fluttered, her pretty pink mouth resonant with sound, dripped into him.
Christine's voice sustained his fantasies, her sweet tonality imbuing life into the figure of the doll, her obsequious murmurs, the sound of her smile, a small laugh.
He kept pushing—more, more, more—clearer, her body becoming almost an afterthought as she curved her throat into the shape of an O, climbing, shoulders slouching loose, hands raised with palms facing open, in supplication, in question.
After one sparkling, glittering, high of sound, she staggered almost, her knees buckling beneath her, slumping into the vanity chair behind her.
She gasped for breath, air filling her, and she made a small sound of fear.
“Christine—you are like the taught string of the harps of angels, golden and divine.”
Her hair curled in soft ringlets about her face, small wisps of baby hair tucked beneath her forehead, chin tipped low. Her hands were shaking.
“…Angel of Music.” She whispered. “I…”
Christine paused. Erik pressed his hand against the glass.
Her voice trembled. “I fear that…what I may confess is a sin.”
“Nothing could ever be farther from your lips, my child.” He murmured, his heart skipping a beat. “Tell your Angel...your Angel loves you."
He practically shook as she steadied herself, tongue appearing only momentarily to wet her lips, glistening softly in the low gas light.
“I am frightened.” She whispered. “I am frightened by your blessing. I barely recognize myself anymore. Please, forgive me.”
Erik steadied the sharp moment of panic which gripped him; instead he soothed her, the ghost of his hand passing over her curls, reassuring her, lulling her into a soft daze. Christine, drawn into a twilight of awareness, was slowly eased into calm once again. It had become easier, to draw her into half-consciousness, her body an echo for his voice. She was so delicate, so responsive.
He would draw back, only slightly.
She was soon to be ready for her debut.
***
Sunday morning drooped gray through her sheer curtains, a bell tolling in the distance a ringing of iron. A flock of pigeons swooped outside, their small bodies peppering dark shadows across the floor.
Christine stirred, sighing. Allowing herself a small luxury of a few minutes extra in bed, she slowly rose, drawing the curtains open, small droplets of rain peppering the glass.
She washed, changing into her chemise for Sundays, the cotton of her nightgown slipping away in a soft white afterthought. She never minded the cold water in the basin; lord knows she had washed with colder, those days long ago on those pilgrimages with her father in the Breton countryside.
Sometimes flashing moments came to her mind's eye, especially now as she was surrounded and cosseted by Parisian stone. She remembered dappled afternoon sun across the easy slopes, a procession of worshippers led along by the sound of a violin, winding down the hills and farmland, an apple tree here and there providing an easy burst of sweetness that soothed those journeys. The sun would sometimes set and glow in marigold bursts of light as they wound up another hill, the breath of the land and the far ocean swelling into her horizon. She closed her eyes, and remembered the smell, of soil and greenery.
As she walked towards the cathedral, apple in hand, she gently held the memory of those days, feeling as if she had arrived at the end of a long journey alone.
She always sat in the back pews, slowly sounding out the French rites, gloved hand beating her chest in turn with the others in the congregation. She always lit candles for her father and her Mamma Valerius, hoping and praying for their providence.
Christine had began to light one for the Angel of Music, hoping her reverence would reach him, another form of repentance.
She spoke with the priest. She confided her fears, her rosary winding soft circles in her hands as she dutifully listened, eased once more.
Her fears were silly, she thought, bouquet of day-old white carnations in hand as she wandered slowly towards the Saint-Vincent cemetery.
“How could I fear an angel so gentle, but fair and true?”
The butcher’s paper crinkled beneath her hands, as she set it upon the modest cross upon the grave of her dear Mamma.
It had been eight months since her passing. A quiet affair, she had slowly begun to unravel, one foot already crossed over the threshold to the next life.
Christine had held her hand right until the end. Had given her last kiss on earth.
“Mamma, I wish you were here.”
A single tear dripped. The wound still ached tender, ached fresh. Christine gripped her hands.
“The Angel of Music is still here with me. I’m sure you’ve already spoken, and know all about his lessons. Please tell my father that his blessing has come true for me.”
A few raindrops fell. The headstones, slouching into moss, became dappled with moisture, a light drizzle overcoming the early afternoon.
As Christine wandered back towards her apartments, unbothered by the shower, a carriage slowed besides her.
“Christine? Christine Daaé?”
She jumped, startled, as a blonde head peeked out of the window, and the carriage stopped.
“Pardon me mademoiselle, but are you Christine Daaé?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
The door opened, the young man smiling warmly.
“Forgive me, but Christine—do you remember the little boy who fetched your red scarf out of the sea?”
Christine blinked, and suddenly his features all coalesced into her memory alongside the seashore.
“Raoul?”
The rain began to pick up harder.
“Would you care to join me?” He smiled, offering his hand. “If you’re comfortable, of course.”
She took it, as she clambered inside.
***
He had filled his coffin with a wedding bouquet of white lilies, their soft scent a fragrance of crushed powder, heavy and heady. In the middle, he had laid the doll.
It stared back up blankly at him, swaddled in silks and satin, mouth forever drawn so-slightly open in a sigh.
The silence of his home vibrated into his chest cavity, the dark curtains above him still and unmoving.
He brushed a curl away from the face of the doll, trailing a finger along the lace.
Gazing into its face, resplendent in his bed, he felt as if the longings he carried slowly unearthed themselves in a succession of notes, one after another, a simple melody lilting into sharp images.
A blue house with large windows by the sitting room, a white curtain hung and open with the breeze. Her voice lingered behind the curve of hallways, inside open rooms, cerulean sky so stark behind the glass. An unmade bed, a real, proper bed made of wood, with Christine dozing in it languidly on a Sunday afternoon. Christine standing below a doorway, holding Ayesha as she set her back inside while greeting him back home, dusk settling in between them. There was an arbor of roses full and plush in the garden, and they stood below it, as he embraced, embraced, and kissed—
Tears dripped low unto the smooth cheeks of the doll.
If it were Christine, in the flesh…she would rise from the confines of the coffin, flushed with color and living, a living thing, clutching a bouquet to her chest, eyes brimming with happiness, sparkling with it.
“I do, Erik.”
He shook with an emotion he could not name—a coalescing of lost futures, lost pasts, a fleeting present, a desperation—
He ripped the doll out from the coffin in one sudden movement, the absurdity of it all awakening him to anger, harsh and dry laughter escaping from his throat as he dragged it all the way into the chamber of mirrors, an illusion broken and giving way to another one.
Erik set the doll at the base of the iron tree, turned around, and shut the door behind him.