The Phantom Ascending |✔| [Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction]

One Magical Solstice

Erik

I can't describe by mere words the scope of my feelings when the midnight struck. I fell to my knees, I stared into the mirror, I wept, I grew feverish and numb from the shock.

My face!

Bewitched like Narcissus, I couldn't take my eyes off its symmetry.

My first instinct was to go to Christine's side, not wasting an hour more. After listening to her sing for weeks, after keeping guard at her every performance, and never properly setting my eyes on her, never exchanging one word with her, I was already on the verge of madness.

In a daze I rushed through the secret tunnels and made it all the way to the fake wall of her music room. Boldly I pressed the lever and entered, breathless from extortion. The sudden change in temperature made me realize I wasn't wearing a cloak, or even a waistcoat over my shirt. I welcomed the warmth and paused to assess my surroundings, careful to wipe my boots so they don't leave any footmarks.

The clock showed it was two past midnight. Everything was quiet, the servants all asleep. It meant that she was at home. I knew my way around the house, having purchased it in the first place, and I confidently went upstairs and into the master bedroom.

She slept peacefully, her face averted from the window and the gentle moonlight that shone through. My Christine, lovelier than I remembered. More of a woman, less of a girl, but equally serene and innocent.

I opened my mouth, but the words were stuck inside my throat. What was I doing, a mere day before the gala night? Hadn't I set out to do things differently this time?

Oh, Christine, I would sing you a thousand songs if I knew one of them would guide you into my arms, to stay there forever.

Any trance I might induce would wear off, just like the face I had now. Perhaps that would be for the best - to exchange all my plans and dreams for one perfect day, a fleeting illusion of paradise... No. When it came to Christine, my dreams were bigger.

I knelt at her bedside and briefly touched a lock of her long hair that lay all over the pillow.

Farewell until tomorrow, my Angel of Music.

* * *

I slept badly, but woke early, eager not to waste precious hours of daylight. Even in doing all I could to prepare for this day, I still felt unprepared.

For the hundredth time I touched the right side of my face. It felt smooth. Normal. The mirrors kept telling me the same. I was fascinated by the stranger in the mirror - for it felt like a stranger was returning my gaze. My hair was brown and thick, noticeably brighter than my usual wigs. It made me less recognizable, or so I hoped.

Stepping out this morning was a test. I waited for the illusion to disperse in the first scream of horror from a passerby, but that never happened. The magic was real.

I secretly took pleasure in the small things: hiring a gondolier, entering the shops, exchanging the most trivial sentences with the working men. Yet there was this constant feeling of wrongness present. It was all fake. My face was fake, my behavior a skillful act. Had these humans truly knew me for myself, they would fear and abhor me.

It was fortunate I was too pressed for time to dwell on such thoughts. The eve of my triumph was before me, and I was intent to make that triumph twofold. I recounted the addresses I was to visit today. It seemed best to begin by having Mr. Destler check into a hotel. After all, one had to keep up appearances.