Chapter Text
"Kira, the highest thing in man is not his god. It's that in him which knows the reverence due a god. And you, Kira, are my highest reverence..."
― Ayn Rand, "We the Living"
"You have tried my patience for the last time," he snarled, words sputtering from his lips that twisted and sneered; a caged beast. His face was merely a single breath from her own when he paused, whispering, "Now, you shall make your choice."
He backed away from her then, moving slowly to the throne and collapsing into its golden wake. He seemed exhausted, suddenly, as if he'd lived several lifetimes within the last few hours, yet regretted them all. His eyes fell upon her…bitterly.
Christine chewed her bottom lip, her eyes never once leaving the distorted face lit only by tiny flickers of candlelight. She was delicate, she was fragile…she was breakable.
The blood lay on his hands. For it was he, who ultimately had broken her.
A simple look passed between the two was the moment they'd both realized it. This man, her protector and guidance, her safety from the world…
He had been the one to destroy her.
She had been the casualty of a desperate love, and within its tilted madnes, had taken lives and forced choices. For even now, he lay yet another choice at her feet. His eyes were wrought with guilt and shame; and hers, an unbearable sorrow that weighed so cripplingly…it seemed it may very well crush her in its silent folds.
The room seemed thick with the stench of death already; this dank lair in which he'd made his home. Christine stared down at her hands, her fingers clenching and unclenching as the weight of her thoughts consumed her. He was asking her – no - demanding that she choose between them. As infuriated as she was with him, she could not seemingly imagine a life without him. In that very moment, as she knelt in layers of lace, she was uncertain of the emotions that swirled and creased within her heart.
Despite the years of deception and the desperate malicious acts, she found that she still cared for him. He yearned for her; this, she knew. The pure knowledge of it made her shudder; a combination of fear and apprehension…as well as an attraction she dare not admit to herself, lest it consume her.
The dark room was still; a chorus of three humans breathing together…a symphony that seemed not quite finished, save for one last piece…one last note…
And this she knew; she was the note that would end the symphony.
She remembered the first night she had come here. She had been so enraptured with his voice; as if it wove a spell that tied her soul and body together. She would have given anything to him, everything to him. Before the spell had been broken, before she had ripped away his mask and revealed his shame. If only she could go back to that very moment where they stood on the threshold; if only she could place the mask back on his face…where it belonged.
Had only a few moments passed? Had he only spoken to here mere seconds ago? Or was it hours, was it days she had been stuck in this very position, wringing her hands so tightly, they seemed to bleed?
Somehow, despite her exhaustion, she lifted herself from the floor. And there she stood, weighed down by the lace, by the choice that lay between her fingers that wrung themselves.
She must be strong, now. And for whom? It didn't seem to matter anymore.
Had she ever even been strong, before?
Hadn't she been ever so weak as her father lay dying, as she watched him strain for his last breath?
Hadn't she been naive when she had let a masked man serenade her and lead her into an unknown? A world of darkness, a world that lay below in the catacombs of the Opera House?
Hadn't she been pathetic when she agreed to her fiances' devilish plan to trap the Phantom…
Her Phantom?
Christine paused suddenly, realization striking her like icy rain. She no longer knew what to call him.
For no longer was he the angel, no longer was he a ghost. He was flesh and blood; a living and breathing man. A majestic and darkened silhouette that so often had hovered above her, so often enveloped her in his gaze and his crazed onslaught of passion…
He had a name. And she'd never thought to ask it. Given the gravity of the events and emotions that now hung in the air between them, the room seemed to strangle…and it was now hard to even take a single breath.
She took another tentative step toward this mystery of a man as he sat on his throne; with long, pale fingers clutching the arms of the chair like talons of a red-eyed raven. He was grotesque; he had done unspeakable things… yet he was still so full of brilliance, as if his mere presence illuminated the room. This presence, in itself was intoxicating, and it filled her senses with lust for the nostalgic, for the man behind the mirror; for time to move backwards, just so she could fix what had been done…
But it could not be undone. It was too late.
Her voice came as a whisper as she approached his cowering form.
"What…what is your name?" Her eyes pleaded with him, as her question had seemed to
rouse him from darkness that had seemed to consume his thoughts, his eyes…She wrung her hands anxiously, standing near him, waiting for him to speak.
"My name . . ." He lifted his shoulders, pondering what he might say to her. His captivating voice seemed to halt inside his throat for a few seconds, before he added softly, "My mother never gave me a name, for she did not wish to acknowledge my existence…except only to provide me with a mask."
Christine shuddered at his words, her heart swelling then with an overwhelming sense of compassion for him. She pictured him as a helpless and disfigured child, alienated, tossed away, and unloved. The prelude to this shattered man who sat on his throne before her very eyes.
The Phantom leaned forward and brought one long finger to his chin. "I chose to call myself Erik. You may call me by that name now, if you wish." The malice in his body seemed to slip away at this admission; the muscles so tightly strung along the broadness of his back now relaxing. As if by revealing his name, he'd released another barrier between them, and it dissolved then into thin air.
And she was thankful for this. For he gave to her, even still. Even though she had shamed him, even though she had torn away his humility, his protection…
"Erik." She murmured, the solemnity of a prayer upon her lips. It felt gratifying to hear it; to know his name, after all the years that had gone by.
"Yes," he sighed, reveling in the sound of his name upon her lips, before quickly sinking back into agony once more. "And now, your Erik asks you to choose, Mademoiselle."
Her gaze drifted back and forth between the two men in front of her. Erik's presence was more than commanding; he sat like a dark prince willing her acceptance. Raoul, struggling in the noose, sweat beads dripping down his face…he had attempted bravery in a futile situation.
For he could never be the victor. Erik had made it so.
"Erik . . ." She was not sure how many times she had whispered his name, but the newness of this title of his lingered upon her tongue; and it seemed to transform him before her very eyes once again.
He had taught her voice to soar. He had awoken feelings within her that were strange but desirable, and he'd offered her love. His love.
But his love came with bloodshed… and now, he threatened her with a choice. Raoul stood on the tips of his toes, struggling against the coarse rope of the noose. Christine strained her neck to look at him behind her. He let out a choked noise, pulling at the rope around his neck, his eyes locking with hers.
Christine.
Christine bid her fiance a tearful nod; a silent farewell. He had been her safety and comfort, her complete and utter stability. There was no raging fire of indecision and desire between them, no threats, no surprises. The future with him by her side was always certain and clear. Raoul always had an answer, a plan, and an embrace. He was the embodiment of a childhood she thought had been long lost. To marry him, to become his wife meant freedom…did it not? Raoul was kind and gentle; he had granted her a familiarity that reminded her of her father…
And the days by the sea.
He had run into the water for her red scarf, returning with it triumphantly and soaking wet. He held the piece of fabric high in his hand, as if it were a beacon that could lead them to the ends of the earth. Yet now, that very boy was now dangling on the edge of a rope, his gaze transfixed upon her and Erik, desperately.
He was helpless, now. The red scarf had been lost to the wind.
Christine had pledged herself to him with a secret engagement. And now, she would tell him goodbye; she would save his life, she would become his protector. Her face turned to him once
more, tears streaming down her face as she mouthed to him yet another secret. I love you.
Could she envision her life without the light of Raoul's smile, the safety of his arms? Could she offer herself to this masked man? She still somehow burned for Erik, for his peculiarity and his genius…
She shifted her eyes to her fallen angel, his shoulders heaving and his chest shuddering, a tumult of emotions she could not yet decipher. Could she exist outside the realm of his music, away from him, forever? And why did the thought of being without him fill her heart with emptiness; with thousands of needle-like knives that seemed to puncture her very soul?
Erik existed in a different realm. She knew she would be the only other being in existence that could share in his world. She wanted to know his world and his pain suddenly, like the notes in an aria he'd taught her; as familiar as the lines in the palm of her right hand.
She looked up at Erik again, meeting his mismatched eyes with a recognition that could only ever live between the two of them. It was an understanding wrought of music, passion; the untold whispers between them. What lingered there was a desire never fulfilled, and it dangled on the edge of a cliff…and neither one of them could ever breach the length of it to grasp it in their hands.
The depth of Christine's emotions for Erik seemed to strangle her. Love, hate, rebirth, gratitude, and anger. All-consuming passion…She could bear it. She would have to.
What could he be feeling in this moment; regret and remorse, guilt and shame? Or was it defeat and desperation?
She hoped Erik had realized the graveness of his actions; every teetering step that had led up to this very moment. She took another step toward him, an inexplicable urge to touch him propelling her to his tall form made of shadows. Could she forgive this man; could she set him free, herself?
Touching him would be the igniting of a flame. He was a man born of shadows and smooth lines; always impeccably dressed in a sensual aloofness that forbid intimacy. He was otherworldly, and Christine yearned to know him suddenly; to learn the lines of the man and not simply the façade of a ghost. He was darkness and uncertainty, something she wished to grasp in her hands and hold it firmly…just long enough to make it real.
He was an incredible creature, her Erik; if she chose to claim him. He was composed of a dark sensuality, holding the inherent grace of a feline, possessing realms of knowledge far too expansive to be touched by any average man. He had stood as her protector, her tutor; ever since she'd been a quivering child in the bowels of the Opera house chapel.
Now, a different man sat in front of her. His shuddering body, once powerful and seemingly unstoppable, now lay in pieces. He was vulnerable in a manner that shook her to her core; almost causing her knees to give out. He'd removed the elegant tailcoat, and as he gripped his elbows to his chest, clad only in his shirtsleeves and trousers; he appeared achingly exposed.
Love me, Erik seemed to silently beg. Love me, Christine. Feel for me, as you felt our music…
He was a murderer.
Yet, he loved her with an intensity she could not touch, an inescapable dream. She was drawn to his love, as if an intangible and unreachable cord bound them together; tying two souls into one.
Christine doubted every truth she had known. She doubted the men that struggled before her. But seemingly, in the midst of it all…she did not doubt herself.
She would make a truth of this night. She would be responsible for whatever lay between the three of them.
If anyone could place a balm to the scars that lined his face…wouldn't it be her?
Erik stood then, pushing himself up from his throne by grasping the arms of the chair. His head was bowed in resignation, and he once again turned his back to his Christine. He did not wish her to see the tears that threatened his eyes, the defeat written across his marred features.
Filled to the brim by sudden and overpowering emotion, Christine brought her palm to Erik's shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at her.
"Erik. You were never alone."
It came both as a whisper and a cry of desperation. It was longing, pain, anger, and love wrapped up in those simple words she uttered without hesitation. She caught the side of his face in her hands and pressed her mouth to his.
This is my choice.
They surrendered together in that embrace, lost to the world around them, his lips casting over hers with a powerful desperation that nearly brought her to her knees..
Damn him, she cried inwardly as he took her mouth with a feverish intensity.
Damn him for all of this.
Their tears mingled between their lips as they sought touch, clutching to one another with ravenous need; drowning desperately and seeking air.
She would be his.
It resonated within her very soul, this kiss. It was everything she needed to know. Everything to seal her choice. In every thought, in every caress of their mouths and brush of their fingers, this love and the finality of it seemed to be spoken aloud.
But, was it enough?
He was hers, and she could no longer deny that she was his. She pulled him to her body in an agony of wanting, her fingers wrenching into his shirtsleeves, her cheek resting upon his shoulder as he shuddered…
And, with the finality of love, she tried to convey that her decision had been made. Christine pulled him once again to her body, her cheek pressed to his bare face in some strange recognition of what was felt between them. Her palms rested in the fabric of his shirt, holding him closer to her.
"I am yours," she whispered into his chest, in a voice so soft that it sounded no louder than a raindrop hitting the ground. But he heard her, and his hands came from trembling in the air by her sides to clutching her; one hand seeking her waist, and the other tangling in her mass of dark curls.
Christine sought his lips again, her touch to his swollen mouth nearly bringing Erik to his knees. When his trembling fingers crept to her cheek, to hold her in his embrace…
It was done.
Even as she dove into a second kiss; a kiss she knew was meant for her alone… for his love traced the outline of her mouth with soft, distorted lips.
She realized that all of these years and months, she had loved him, and would continue to love him.
And within this realization, she had set him free.