She's not coming back to you, you know. I paced tightly back and forth, scowling at the floor. Three paces between one wall and the other; then turn and go back the other way, three measured footsteps and a scuffled spin, back and forth, until I wouldn't have been surprised to see a rut in the floor. Whatever chance you once had is gone now -- gone --
"Gone," I repeated aloud, letting the word echo in the silence. My pacing ceased, almost of its own accord, and I stared off to where the darkness of the passageway met the lantern's pale light. Of course she's not coming back to you. You've killed a man, one of her colleagues. What do you expect her to do -- slap you on the wrist and say 'You've been a naughty boy, but I forgive you'?
And what would my response be to that? 'Oops'? The death of a man is no minor crime...
But you've killed before, haven't you? a little inner voice reminded me. Which was true, of course -- but the other times, there was less remorse afterwards. I might have been taking a human life, but in most cases they deserved it. Twice, I hadn't been sure they did deserve it, but killing them was the only way for me to get out alive. But this time was different, because I hadn't needed to kill him, hadn't intended to at all (only meant to scare him!); because Christine was there, would find out eventually, because--
Because I had lost control. I had always been in control, always. And if I lost it here, I was afraid to think where else I might lose it. If Raoul said a word against me, to my face -- or, God forbid, if Christine angered me? I couldn't bear to see her harmed, least of all by myself -- and yet --
I sighed and peered through the mirror to the small battered timepiece on Christine's dresser. It had never been very fancy, and had gotten less so over the years, but it had been her mother's. It ran fairly dependably, I had found. Now, though, I could swear that it was running about half speed.
"Where are they?" I muttered. "Surely they've had time to eat, and she has to be back for tonight's performance--"
...or lack thereof...
But after an eternity of seconds, they came back, flushed with happiness and laughing at some shared joke.
"...so I said to him, 'I believe this is your duck, sir.'" Raoul grinned mischievously.
"You didn't!" Christine said in mock reproof.
"I did."
She laughed and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Raoul... you're a very naughty boy. But I forgive you anyway."
I kicked the wall, and half turned away.
"So, will you be at the performance tonight?" Christine asked gaily.
"Of course, that's my... duty, as one of the patrons of the Opera House."
"And that's the only reason you're going, because you're a patron?"
"Well, the leading lady's beauty and charm might have something to do with my decision to attend..."
"Only something?"
"Well," he admitted, grinning, "perhaps 'tis a very strong incentive."
She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. For a moment I considered leaping through the mirror, perhaps throttling Raoul or perhaps just giving him one satisfying kick, and taking Christine with me down to the lair. There would be no option of leaving, this time, she would spend the rest of her days with me, she would eventually learn to like it--
No. Dear God, no. That would be the course of a madman.
Their pretty little conversation was interruped by a shrill "Christine!" from outside, and a ballet girl flurried in like a tiny bouncing whirlwind.
"Yes, Meg," Christine said with a slight sigh of annoyance, "what is it?"
"Oh, I'm so glad you're all right, I've been looking just everywhere for you but couldn't find you, where on earth have you been?"
"I've been... at lunch."
Meg turned and saw Raoul then, seemingly for the first time, and her blue eyes widened in exaggerated delight. "Oh my, Christine, with the Vicomte? You, and, and him? Why didn't you tell me?! This is fabulous news! Christine, you must tell me next time! Are you going to get married?"
Christine ducked her head, smiling at Raoul. "Not... yet."
Raoul stepped forward, putting his hand on Christine's shoulder. "Is there a reason you came, mam'selle, or...?"
Meg nodded a little jerkily. "Actually there is. Christine -- the managers say that, if you feel up to it, we will perform tonight as planned."
"If... why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't we--?"
Meg's mouth dropped. "You mean you haven't -- no, you wouldn't have, I guess, if you were at lunch."
"What's happened?"
"I... oh. It's, um, well, you know Charles?"
"In the ballet? Yes -- has something happened to him?"
Suddenly I couldn't bear to stay: I didn't want to see Christine's reaction, didn't want to see her clinging to Raoul for comfort. I stalked off down the passageway, forcing my legs into submission when they threatened to collapse on me. I started to go down to the lair, but didn't get very far; the walls closed in on me and spun about, taunting me, blocking me at every turn but the one leading back to Christine... and there I could not go, not yet.
So I took the only other course available: I went up. Up, farther than I'd been in years, to the roof of the Opera House.
It afforded a great view of the city, but I didn't care for that splendour just then. All I needed was someplace open, without walls or mirrors or dark endless tunnels, where I could be...
Alone.
Alone, with only the wind and the sky and my own thoughts -- no, not even my thoughts, just the bare stone roof and the cold chipped heads of the gargoyles ringing the roof. I leaned against the largest of the statues -- this was not a gargoyle proper, but was a statue adorning the front of the Opera House, a tremendous gold-trimmed angel raising a harp to the sky as if in offering to the muses. I stepped forward, onto -- no, into the angel, for it was hollow, and stood with my arms braced against its wings and my head bowed. The wind played with my hair, and a pair of swallows chased each other, down between me and the street.
I wish I could fly, I thought suddenly. It was not the first time I had thought that. Fly away from everything... aren't angels supposed to have wings? My hands clenched around the cold wings of the statue. So where are mine, hmm?
I stared down again, past the swallows to the street below. It seemed so far away... yes, there was one way I could fly. Just for a moment, but still fly. And then--
And then Christine would be -- alone -- and Raoul would have won. Is that what you want?
No. All I want is to be left alone, with Christine. Alone...
And yet, for a lifetime of being alone, it seemed I was fated not to be alone when I wanted to be.
The trapdoor leading to the stairway exploded up with an echoing boom, startling me into momentary immobility. There was no escape, save jumping off the roof -- but the angel was hollow. Almost without conscious thought, I dropped down, jamming my knees between the base of the angel and the side of the building so that my head was below the level of the roof. Whoever you are, leave. Telepathy had never actually worked before, but there was always a first time. Leave now...
"Christine, why on earth are you--"
I groaned quietly, and buried my face in my hands. Dear God, no, please not them! But it was, of course; if one thing goes wrong, everything goes wrong.
"I needed a place where we could be alone," she said in a low, shaking voice. "Where there aren't... walls."
"Walls? I don't understand."
"Walls... have ears, Raoul." She gulped audibly.
"Christine, I know you're upset, this man's death affects everyone at the Opera. Suicide is hard on everyone. But--"
"We don't know it was suicide," she said, in a voice so low it almost didn't carry.
"Sure we do -- you heard what they said -- the door was locked from the inside, there were no other entrances to the room."
"Ghosts can walk through walls."
"Ghosts?" He laughed nervously. "I've heard the rumours, but -- Christine, surely you don't believe that rubbish about--"
"It isn't rubbish!" she snapped suddenly. "I..." There was a sudden, heavy silence. "I've seen him."
I wished the bottom could drop out of the angel, so I could fly away from this. Miracles happen, maybe I could turn into a swan and migrate off somewhere. It would be better than this, certainly... How much would she tell him? Enough that he could recognize me? It had been a long time since I saw him last, but with enough prodding he would remember.
"Seen who? You can't think that there really is a Ghost--"
"No, he's... he's real, I swear it. I've seen him, Raoul... seen his face, touched his hand..."
I wished I could see the young Vicomte's face. What would it hold -- shock, anger, fear? Incomprehension?
"I don't understand," he said, a little shakily.
"He... Erik was my tutor, Raoul."
Raoul muttered something under his breath, and I imagined him getting greyer and greyer. "So the night of the Gala, that little stunt--"
"Was him, yes. I told you truthfully, he took me to his house, we had dinner, he played for me, and..." For the longest moment I waited, wondering what she would say next. Describe my face? Did she even remember it?
"...and when I got tired, he took me back to the room."
"Nothing improper?"
"I already told you, no."
"No threats? No violence?"
"No threats, no; and..." She sighed. "I said something wrong, Raoul, did something horribly stupid. And now -- well, I hadn't thought he'd hurt me. I trusted him, trusted... what I saw in his eyes. Trusted his love. But now, after this -- I just don't know any more! If he was able to kill -- and kill so that it looked like a suicide! -- what else can he do, that I can't even begin to imagine?"
"I don't know, Christine," he said helplessly. I wished I were the one up there with her, shielding her from a world she feared; wished I had the chance to tell her all the things in my heart, that I would never leave her and never cease to love her for as long as I lived...
But if you had the chance to tell her, would you? Or would you simply stand there hoping that the silence would say enough?
There was a moment's silence; not pure silence, broken as it was by the faint bustle from the street and by my own heartbeat and breathing, and by the shifting of cloth from the pair of out on the roof. And then Christine spoke, in a lost little voice which I had heard only a few times before:
"And yet, I pity him..."
"Pity?" Raoul asked, a little incredulously, and I echoed silently, Pity?
"He cares for me, Raoul; I can feel it, see it in every move he makes around me. And he has done a great deal for me, without his help I'd never have gotten this far! And in his eyes, I see... Raoul, I've never seen such sadness, such despair! ...and such love. I don't want to hurt him! He deserves more from me than I can ever give him... but on the other hand, I'm afraid to give it to him. I don't know what to do!"
"Christine," he murmured, I think trying to sound soothing, "Christine..."
Christine...
I didn't think I'd spoken aloud, but Christine hissed and whispered, "What was that?"
"What?"
"That... it sounded like a voice. Calling my name."
"I didn't -- there's no one up here but us, Christine, you know that. But I'll look anyway, all right?"
She made no response, but from his footsteps, and from the sound of the trapdoor opening and closing, I could assume he was checking for intruders. You're the intruder, Raoul, I thought angrily. My knees were starting to ache, but I didn't dare move. Get out, before --
His footsteps faded, paused, and then grew louder, and for a moment he stood at the edge of the roof above my head. I gripped the rough wall with my fingertips, trying to gain enough leverage to press flat against the wall. I bowed my head so the white of the mask was hidden; I half wanted him to see me, so that I would have an excuse for ending this farce of a rivalry, but I somehow doubted that Christine would be terribly happy knowing that I'd overheard her conversation.
But at last he left, and went back to where Christine was. "There's no one here, Christine," he said reassuringly, "it was probably just the wind."
"...I guess..."
There was another pause, then: "Christine, I think you should know, I... I love you..."
"Oh, Raoul!" she whispered, and I took a deep breath against tears which threatened to overwhelm me.
"Christine... I can't fight legends. My weapon is the sword; how can a sword kill shadows, strike at a ghost? You say he is only a man, but he is not simply a man; how do I deal with him, how do I fight with someone I can't see?"
Oh, so you have some sense after all? No, you could not beat me, in any confrontation, direct or otherwise. You never seemed to understand that before, even to the day I left the school.
"Come away with me," he said impulsively. "After the performance tonight -- if you still want to do it -- my carriage can take us away, somewhere far away from these shadows and ghosts, perhaps to the country; I'll be with you forever, I promise, and I'll protect you, I love you forever, I love you..."
"Order your white horses then," Christine said, and I was unsure whether she was laughing or crying, or maybe both. "All I want is peace, is someone there to hold me and to protect me, to love me..."
Raoul laughed, sounding like a little boy. "I can do that," he said eagerly, "gladly!"
"I know," she murmured.
There was relative silence, then: "Oh dear, I must be getting back! They'll wonder... I have to get ready for tonight."
"Then you are singing then?"
"Of course, I... well..."
"What?"
"I have to say goodbye to him... this is the only way I know how."
If they said anything else, I didn't hear it; tears were running into my mouth, threatening to smother me, and my throat was constricting against the little air I could get, and I felt I would break in half. And yet I had to restrain myself, to keep quiet; I hardly wanted Raoul to discover me at this point. And when I at last became aware again, they were gone.
I climbed out of the angel and stood for a moment on the bare roof, and a gust of wind tugged at my cloak so that it billowed out behind me. "Why are you doing this, Christine?" I whispered. I got no answer, expected none. She was gone... but I knew her reasons anyway. There's a problem with giving an angel her wings, I thought bitterly, she's as likely to fly away as anything else. The roof swayed, danced; I let myself fall, first to my knees and then to my side, rolling over onto my back. I fumbled at the back of my head for the ties to the mask and lowered it to my chest; for a long moment I lay, eyes closed, feeling the air play with my tear-stained face. "Is this your payment for all I've done? I don't understand..."
She claimed that her song that night was her only way of saying goodbye to me; if so, it was a rather lousy farewell. She sang to Raoul, smiled at him as the curtain lowered at intermission, and never once, as far as I saw, did she sing towards Box 5, the "ghost's box". It was empty, of course, and even I was not there: if Christine had said what she did to Raoul, she could easily have told him everything. I did not want him attempting an ambush on my box, at least not with me inside. There was the slightest possibility that he would succeed... or that I would have to kill him, which, despite everything that had happened, I did not yet want to do.
Instead, I chose to sit cross-legged on one of the catwalks over the stage, a fairly low one which were support for the two smaller chandeliers which illuminated the front sides of the stage. I could see most of the action on stage, except for that which took place directly under the catwalk, and I was safely hidden by shadows. No one came to this catwalk, unless the chandelier needed repair -- very rarely did this happen during performances -- but I had jammed the doors at either end, just in case.
So I sat, wrapped in my black cloak, and watched. Watched as Christine, as Tosca, killed the arrogant baritone Scarpia and sang over his body. How can you condemn me under a suspicion of murder, and then turn around and "convincingly" act out a murder of your own? Granted, Scarpia deserved it more -- if any man can be judged to be more deserving of death -- but should I not be allowed, by your logic, to condemn you similarly, for your acted murders?
The third act was too much for me: seeing Mario and Tosca rejoice over Scarpia's death and sing happily about a life of peace and happiness -- those things happen only in opera, not in life. Abruptly I stood and left, in the middle of a song--
{"Tu? ...di tua man l'uccidesti? - tu pia, tu benigna, - e per me!"}
--climbed silently up the rope to the passage above, from where I had come. I pulled the rope up behind me, so that if they found a way onto the catwalk they could not follow me, and began wandering. There were not many places I could go, up here, but I did not care where I went. Just away from the music.
Not the music, even -- I could not live without music! -- just the words, the plots, the thoughts behind the notes. Once the text had blurred to a meaningless flow of syllables, the music itself became almost hypnotic. It started to pulse through my veins, like fire, whispering its promise of unending perfection, a silent song which I had long ago learned only I could hear.
And then it stopped.
But it's soon, I thought, confused, far too soon. The music's hold on me had snapped, leaving me momentarily disoriented. It's not over, it can't be over--
And then the sounds reached me -- not applause, not even shocked hisses which would greet a minor mishap, but screams and frightened voices.
What the--
It took me a moment to orient myself, and then I ran down the tunnels and dropped onto the catwalk. Stupid, I thought instantly, stupid... if they're on the catwalk--
But my luck, such as it was, held; the doors remained jammed, and the catwalk was clear. Odd; it's not supposed to be this dark. Confident that one shadow in the grey near-twilight would be lost among the multitude of shifting shadows cast by the lanterns some of the people on the floor and stage were carrying, I stepped out onto the beam and looked down.
Glass, sparkling erratically in the dim light, lay everywhere on the stage, glass and shards of wood where the stage had splintered. Somehow, one of the chandeliers had fallen. Or was pushed. Or maybe there was cyanide in the tea, and it was dead before it got here...
I shook my head. This is no time to laugh, I reminded myself, turning back to the destruction below. A chorus member -- one of the soldiers, but I couldn't see his face -- sat on the ground holding his leg and moaning, and others were staggering off, with blood on their hands and faces. There probably few if any casualties, other than the chandelier. But Christine -- she had to have been on stage at the time, Tosca didn't leave until jumping off the battlements at the very end of the opera. If she'd been hurt--
Something whistled past my ear, and I swatted at it irritably. The noise, though growing quieter as the audience slowly left, made it hard to concentrate, and I nearly gave up the search. Even if she's all right, she's probably at least backstage, you'll never find her from here--
Something slammed into my leg, knocking my feet from under me. I twisted enough that I fell straight onto the catwalk, rather than flipping off and down to the stage. Cursing under my breath (too many more stunts like that, and you're sure to be noticed!), I stood back up.
And promptly fell back down, as my left leg collapsed in a burst of fiery agony.
That is not, I told myself through gritted teeth, what is supposed to happen. The exploring hand which touched my leg set off another wave of pain, and came away stained with a dark hot liquid. I groaned and lifted my head, not knowing quite what I expected to see...
A lantern flared in one of the boxes; Box 4, perhaps, but it was hard to tell. I could see Raoul, standing stiffly, holding a pistol at arm's length, pointed in my direction.
My leg started to pound with agony, throbbing in time to my pulse, and I closed my eyes wearily. So... Raoul had shot me. Pleasant boy. If you keep this up, can't you see that I shall have to declare war on you? I don't think you'd find that pleasant, but you seem most insistent on provoking me.
"Please, sir," said an unfamiliar voice, "don't shoot." I opened my eyes again to see a police officer lowering Raoul's arms. "You might hit one of the men up there, sir."
"There was someone up there," Raoul said petulantly. "Up on the lowest catwalk, I saw him..."
"The doors are blocked, sir, there's no way for anyone to get out there. It must have been a shadow."
"But I saw--" Raoul turned away and stalked off, his whole body tense with frustration. It was only then that I saw Christine, standing in the box directly beyond where Raoul had been. She stepped forward, looking earnestly at the catwalk. I raised myself up on my elbows as much as I dared, hoping that she and no one else would see me, and stretched out a hand towards her. "Christine," I whispered; but everything I wanted to say, needed to say, dissolved in the pain. Christine's face did not change, I don't think she saw me. She bowed her head and left, not saying anything and not looking back. I heard her call Raoul's name, once, and then she was gone.
Gone... my hand fell back, and I stared down at the stage. If only I could fly... just once... But the stage was too close, and a fall from this height would surely not kill me. It would only deliver me into the hands of my enemies.
They would come soon; I realized that, if nothing else. Others, policemen or stagehands or someone. The doors were jammed, but they would find a way. And I could not be found here. I had been captured before. It was never pleasant, least of all in a situation like this, where they knew what I could do. I could not stay. I crawled over to the end of the beam, and somehow pulled myself up.
Somehow... and God only knows how, if he even pays attention to me any more. Strength was not a factor, I had done similar things before. I could make it up, even if I nearly blacked out once I got there, and lay for several minutes without moving. The pain -- well, that mattered, but I had found survival instinct could be stronger than any physical pain. But when the need for life is gone...
I had always had a strong instinct, there; whatever I lost, whatever I lacked, I always had my music, and I always had a fierce sense of life. But Christine had taken them both away. Music -- I stared at my hands, which danced with a shower of red and yellow and black highlights. I could still play, yes, but where would the joy be? If every time I sang, or played my violin, I thought of Christine--
I have looked on Camelot, I thought dizzily, struggling to my feet, and the curse is come upon me. I needed to get to the underground lake -- I would be safe there, as safe as Lady Shalott on the river. "Singing in her song she died," I muttered, as the floor spun mockingly beneath me. "Lovely way--"
It was quite simple to get to the lair from here, if you knew which path led to Rome and which path did not; and so I went, sometimes limping, often crawling, and a few times dragging myself, like a slothful snake. By the end of it, my leg had ceased to throb; it just hurt, constantly, overwhelming any other sensation.
But at last my outstretched hand met not stone but water, cool and dark. With a cry of relief I let myself rest, trailing my fingers in the water. Only a little farther, said the whispers at the back of my mind. A little farther, and then you have nothing to worry about. No pain... no love to fight... only peace.
"Peace..." Once, peace had meant surrender, had meant giving in to the others. It was a dull peace, and only by fighting back, by winning, could I achieve happiness. But now...
Now, Christine had abandoned me. Abandoned me, without even a word of farewell, without trying to see me one last time. There was nothing left for me, and I was tired of fighting.
Please -- just one last kiss?
But there was nothing, could never be anything else; just darkness, reaching its cold fingers up to claim me. Dark, empty nothingness. That was all I had ever had...
