Unmasqued

"You have arrived there, Christine. No one will contest it now." He wanted to reach over and take her hand from beneath those furs and press it to his lips, to comfort her. How he wished he'd been there during her lonely days.

"I made friends with one of the other dancers and Franco, a young Italian man who was brilliant at organizing the props docks. Franco and I… Raoul, he made me feel not so alone. We were clumsy and furtive, but we needed each other."

Raoul swallowed. He'd hoped, but he really hadn't believed she might have still been untouched, living in an environment such as the Opera House. "Did you love him?"

When she shrugged, the furs shifted and fell away, exposing her shoulder to the brisk wind. She busied herself, trying to pull the fox and rabbit skins back up over her as she answered. "I don't know. But whatever it was, it did not last long, for he soon had his attention caught by one of the older chorus girls, and they ran off to join the theater in Marseilles."

"And after Franco?"

"Does it matter so much to you, Raoul? Will my answer change anything?"

"No." It was true.

"Then why ask it?"

"Because I want to know that your life wasn't as hard as I think it was; while I was raised in a world of luxury and comfort, I don't want to believe that you were lonely and afraid or… or mistreated. All those times I thought of you-and I did think of you, Christine, I truly did."

"Thank you, Raoul. It's nice to know that perhaps I wasn't as alone as I thought I was. And… to answer your question, no, I did not seek out a protector. Nor did one seek me out. I was too shy, and not talented enough. I didn't attract their attention, and I was rather glad I did not. And it seemed so… false. Practical, perhaps, but false."

"I'm selfish, but I am glad."

"I was lonely. I was surrounded by people all the time, but I was alone. I don't know if I shall ever find my place."

"You will, Christine. You will. With me."

Then she looked at him. "That's what I love about you, Raoul. You're a good listener. You help me to put into words things that I didn't realize I felt until I spoke them."

But he didn't want to be just a good listener, just a friend. He wanted all of her.

And he would have it. All of her.

Erik dreamt.

He dreamt of her, of her long, swirling dark hair, cloaking him… of the slender warmth of her body, lining his own, tangling with his limbs.

Of her luscious mouth, red and full, smiling, pouting, coming to him, closing over him… of her delicate fingers, narrow and creamy in the dark hair of his body… of driving into her, filling her, joining with her… loving her.

Loving her.

Of her laughing, singing, dancing… even of eating, of mundane things such as dressing her hair and buttoning her gown.

He dreamed of Christine onstage, singing for him, only for him, her blue eyes lifted to his box and her whole being centered on him, on pleasing him.

Of waking next to her.

Of walking boldly into the Opera House to take his seat in the front of the stalls.

Of pushing through the throngs of admirers outside her dressing room door, carrying an impossible armful of lilies.

Of driving with her along the Seine, in an open carriage.

And then the dreams changed… from a warm, sun-filled day to a dark, cold emptiness. To pain, searing pain, and scratchy wool coverings and iron chains. To the shrieks and cries and jeers, and the running. Always, the running, and running, and running.

Down dark hallways, through moon-glistening streets, into deep, dank tunnels and underground rivers. With the echoes of life above, permanently exorcised from his own. He could not draw in enough breath; he could not gasp in enough air… He rounded the corner of the never-ending tunnel…

And saw Christine, hanging on the wall, the black and gray and evil blue stone wall, her arms spread, her legs apart, her body white and naked against the dark.

He couldn't get to her… couldn't reach her… He kept running toward her, running and stumbling and running, but he could not reach her…

And then strong hands pulled on him, captured him… held his muscular arms; something hard crashed against the backs of his knees, sending him crumpling. His legs bound, his arms chained, he was thrown to the floor. The cold, wet, dark floor.

You'll never have her, scuttling rat.

You bury yourself in the dark, and yearn for what you will never have. She will never look on the likes of you, no matter that she spreads her legs when you force her. She'll not spread 'em for your cock.

As Buquet's taunting words echoed in his mind, reverberating in the cavern of his dreams, Erik struggled against his bonds. He had to reach her… to get to Christine…

But then… she was not alone.