Title: The Coming of Night
Pairing (or Characters if there is no pairing): Erik/Christine
Rating: R - mention of sex and violence
Phantom Version: Characters based on the 2004 film.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I just manipulate it.
Night had become much more cruel than he had ever remembered it. The darkness that once used to protect and hide now only teased and taunted. He had lost the shadow that once flooded his soul, for in the never-ending black she would always come to him.
When he closed his eyes she came as a girl, naïve, innocent, and uncertain under his touch. The white lace of her modest gown, the elegant placement of her curling hair, the pearl glow of her youthful skin teased his mind with impure thoughts. Standing before his bed she seemed to float, sustained by invisible wings, her feet never quite touching the ground. He never spoke a word to her, only listened as her pristine song danced upon his ears, intoxicating him, freeing his soul. In the light that was her night she would delicately, curiously caress his cheek with fingers as soft as feathers; each touch bestowing a gift of heavenly beauty. Her fingers stroked his tender flesh, danced across his aching lips, and finally rested upon his porcelain mask. Each time he always knew what would come next, and yet, he never tried to stop her. He only closed his eyes and cherished the feeling of cold, cruel porcelain being replaced with her warm, ambrosia scented breath. No scream escaped her parted lips. No scar graced his handsome face. She was his savior, his goddess, his one last hope. Slowly, gently, he would take her into his arms, into his bed, and he would become her first, her only. But she would never stay, for in deflowering his angel, he had sinned.
Only then would she come as a ghost, invisible yet present, never there, but never gone. She would rest at the foot of his bed, shadows thrown across her body, casting half of her face into darkness, as if she, too, wore a mask to conceal unsightly scars. Her dress was always grey, modest and plain, and her hair was simple, hanging loosely, neatly over her shoulders. Almost silently, in a whisper, she would call out to him, practically begging for his touch, but her gaze never met his, and when he reached for her she would always be just beyond his fingertips, as if in that split second she had changed her mind and retreated. She was torn between what she had and what she most desired; one foot was in darkness, one in light, one blessed, one damned. Somehow he always knew that he was her night. The longer she stayed the further he fell from redemption. Her torment became his; her pain was reflected in his eyes, her grief tore at his heart. They were both trapped somewhere in between lust and love, locked in this middle ground of neither night nor day. Finally appreciating her pain he would take her into his arms, pulling her tiny body close to his, bestowing her gentle kisses to ease the pain, anything to give her the courage to decide. But desire is a slippery snake, and lust is the sand it slithers upon. In that night far from both heaven and hell he took a married woman into his bed and was condemned for all time.
In his damnation she came as a siren: deceptive, clever, and always calling to him. Her long curls, tangled and messy, spilled over her bare shoulders, one lock always finding it’s resting place upon her breast. She always came clad in red; a scarlet skirt and a corset tinted the deep shade of blood nearly exposed all. It was almost lewd, the way she was dressed, and yet he could never take his eyes off of her. Even the way she moved was fatal. Like a snake poised to attack she would weave in and out of the smoke that surrounded her like a shroud. Her fingers would never linger upon his skin, only a quick sweep across the jaw line or a fleeting touch as she brushed sweat-drenched hair off his forehead. She teased him for what seemed like eternity, until finally in a single, fluid motion she tore off his mask. The breath from her scream burnt his hideous face with a searing pain he couldn’t seem to turn away from. Yet in the end, at the acme of his torment and suffering, she would seduce him with the final bait: a fruit whose nectar was far too sweet to resist plucking it from its tree. And though he knew it to be forbidden, he took it greedily, without hesitation. She was his destruction and he was her fallen angel. It was then, when all he had was the knowledge of his eternal fate and the memory of her terror soaked scream that he had no other choice. The hands that once caressed lustfully turned calloused and dangerous, and the breast that once embodied all desire turned cold and still. She never struggled; she seemed to embrace her fate. As the last burning, breathing life escaped her body she almost smiled at him, and Erik knew that he had acted precisely as she had planned. There was no longer any chance in returning, for killing the only women he loved was his hell.
But after it all, she came as herself, pure, ever present yet never near, and the harbinger to his eternal pain. She was the epitome of beauty, fairer than any angel and more seductive than any demon, without even muttering a sound. She stood in the corner, her chestnut curls blending into the deep velvet curtains, her ivory dress illuminated by the constant glow of a thousand candles, as if she were dressed in diamonds. She would offer him a single rose, as red as his beating heart. But when he took it from her hand it would wilt, crisp, burgundy petals crumbling under his touch, and he knew it was over, once again. All the games they had played, all the beauty, all the pain were lost and forgotten, swallowed by night. In the darkness of his chamber he could see her make the final choice, her proud, determined figure joining hands with another, never looking back. He watched it all through salt stained eyes, tears neither of grief nor sorrow, but of unbridled relief, for he would not have to relive it all again till the next night. In the gloom that remained he was finally alone.
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